While I work,

she softly sleeps

on the tan couch,

head on its arm,

paws touching,

a parcel of

brown and white,

curled in a ball of warmth.

 

I wonder what she is dreaming.

Is she sniffing her way around the pond,

testing the thin ice on its edge,

pausing to smell a cedar tree,

jumping when a heron takes flight?

Or is she in the dog park

cautiously greeting other dogs,

racing around the perimeter,

stopping occasionally to

make sure I am still there?

 

What a comfort to know that

when I move,

she will open her hazel eyes

and track my every step,

waiting to see

if it is time to follow.

What more could the world offer

at this moment, this very moment?