The faithful dog grows deaf
in old age and follows me
from room to room to be his ears.
What shall I hear, Lord?
The nothing he calls out to?
The train and traffic in the distance?
In this world of rain and falling leaves,
I wonder if I have heard more
than I have said, been called to
more than called out: Lo, and Why,
and Where is this place I call home?
I am reminded of a story
my mother told, about rescuing
a hummingbird, how tiny the thing was
in her hand, making the smallest song.
The dog groans out now, unaware
even of the heavy sound of his own breathing.
Maybe this is your blessing to us all,
slowly removing our senses
after such a long and loud life
to quiet the parting waters
death’s long vessel makes
in the night. Sometimes in the morning
I hold out my hand, so he knows he is welcome
when I look at him and mouth the words
he loves: C’mon boy. Come here.