The dog’s ashes sift a little lower
in the garden under evening’s arterial light.
Above, Venus calls in the west,
and the last flight of geese settles
in old man Moran’s pond.
Hunched and shuffling, he makes his way
to feed the old horse and graying mule,
a fortnight from the end of his wife’s
long fight. Stars are winking now, but we’ve
difficulty enough on the ground.
— William Sheldon