The Holiday

She dreams of morning. Because the rusty lightcoats itself with inquisitive  steam rising acrossthe body of water, small stone-fruits createfleshy knocks against the slick pane inside your mind,almost visible. Who is there to ask. Who would mind to inhabit that time, or to be that age once again. This morning,  I watched a closely-trimmed dog,reluctantly panting, swallow the mist:he offered his own contribution of moistureto air. He chose not  to feed, and instead gougedtufts of Bermuda grass pushing the wet earth aside and reserving space for the owl’s shadow.