Summer Dogs

Summer sky without a cloud,
beheld through plum tree limbs set rocking
by my creaking hammock ride,
and on the brokenhearted lawn,
the barking dogs collide.

Collide collide collide collide,
and then come bounding to my side.
They bring an apple from the tree,
they squash a plum against my knee.

They don’t write poems,
they don’t make rhymes,
they don’t plant ‘tators,
they don’t plot crimes.

Dogs are perfection,
dogs are grace,
much less wordy
than the human race.

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