And pass he will, taller than the weeds—-for the present
Moment works in him like yesterdays and tomorrows
Work in you: This is when he is, the when of the trees
Grown a darker green with bug-eaten edges, speckled
With holes, and it’s the when of the dry brown grass.
It is deep summer. It is. His movement is deliberate
And so soundless. It is. Watching me watching him,
I realize I’m invisible until I become a threat to him
And to him alone—He is his only concern, no wisdom
Required until the day of his demise that I will ignore
In contemplation of the peace in his hooves,
The shine on his rich new fur, the black of his eye,
With no recrimination or even judgment or even grief.