WOLFDOG

Crouched by the yard fence,

he guards winter’s afternoon,

sunlight on these fruit trees, fallen leaves.

Those shadows inching earth,

the soundless footfalls mounting eaves,

alert his sharpened ears,

erect, then drooping back to drowse.

From a distant sky, sparrows come,

crossing the fence for his rusty food bowl,

its cold, hard rice.

Still as wood, he lets the breeze

arrange his soft new coat.

The sparrows, stuffed,

shake their wings and fly,

their shadows on his nose

like a fleeting patch of cloud.

His eyes look up, his gaze

tethered by his neckchain.