Oliver the dog at Bar Island Sandbar

His paws sink into the wet earth,
an act of submission.
He feels the soil beneath his feet,
knowing it not as ground or clay,
but as the unnamed constant
that bears his weight.
He does not consider the water it can contain
before its porous particles burst
nor how long it will withstand our abuses
before forsaking us.
He only knows the way it feels
before he pulls his paw away,
lets the impression remain;
he only knows its smell when he
puts his nose to the damp darkness.
He carries it as a part of him,
on his feet, his nose, his body,
discerning his place in the earth,
the earth’s place in him,
without asking or being told.

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