To Old Pup

‘Round and ‘round and ‘round in a circle ‘til he died. Old Pup walked In the middle of the field He’d found though he was blind I guess he knew how to find it It was one he’d chased odd sprites across many, many times He’d stayed with us when he lost his sight I’d feed him by hand that day though, he’d refused the meat Old Pup had his pride. He would not stay where he had ruled in prime Or lay him down where he once guarded, too weak and old to stop a fly He’d left, farewell, without a sound and found the field... August sun’s heat rose in waves like Cicada’s buzz No breeze, no leaves moved, no dust stirred The fierce heat stilled the countryside Light green Mesquite, buff brown drying weed the sky, heat faded blue, two small white clouds, utterly still the only movement, a small tan dog going ‘round and ‘round in a circle in a barren cotton field looking for a place to die. (to the one he loved, who loved him back he gave his loyal life, but hid from me his death even now, his last, noble gift wets my eyes and steals away my breath)