We sit in the sun on the

south-facing balcony

soaking up the warmth,

out of the wind on a cool,

pre-autumn September

afternoon.

My Chocolate Lab nudges my

forearm and nudges again.

I look away from the poem and

I look at him beckoning me.

He’s old.  He might not be here

a long time and someday

I will wish that he were here to

nudge my forearm.

I rub behind his ears;

I ball up a fist and

rub his snout

which itches with late

summer allergies.

He goes to lie in the sun.

I look over at my wife and

return to Jim Harrison.