It’s autumn now
I’m walking tracks not strolled since my dog died,
exposed old olive roots crisscross it.
The path slopes down
to where almond trees grow
and in winters it become a vivacious little river.
Thinking of the dog
I sense her presence
and when I bend down to touch ancient roots,
which are smooth and warm
she comes running to see
what I’m up to
and I tell her that we are collecting poetry.

She hears something in the thicket a bird or a rabbit runs
to investigate feeling very brave and showing off.
The track ends near a ruin
and we have collected four tiny poems
one hung on a branch of an almond tree,
one she found behind the ruin’s wall,
one was written in the sky
and I found one in an empty lark’s nest.
It’s late
a cooling wind blows
and since I’m now thinking of other things
my dog has gone back into her kennel in my memory for now.