U: The Old Dog

The Old Dog

The dock is wet with morning dew;
it is yet early in the season.

At the end of the pier is an old dog,
curled tight against the morning cold.

As I pass, she follows me with her eyes.
Does she dream of her master's white sails
filled with summer winds.

Or is she remembering Autumn days
under the sweet limbs of madrone trees.

Is there pain in these memories?
Can she feel a loss of faith. And,

will she see the evidence of pity
that marks my face?