The
dog is first to hear the thunderstorm;
It
builds out west, then rumbles on the way
To
eastern skies; he leaps, then whines, his warm
Breath
close to master's face, he seems to say,
"Wake
up, you fool, the end of time is here!"
But
dogs don't think eschatalogically.
They
don't know much, just sounds that they must fear,
A
scream of lightning off across the sea,
A
shadow lurking, rain upon the fen,
A
footstep unannounced at the front door,
The
master's skin grown cold as death, and then:
His
mistress left to feed an aging cur.
A
dog is not so different from a man.
Afraid
so much, he loves as best he can.
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