The Holiday

She dreams of morning.
Because the rusty light
coats itself with inquisitive 
steam rising across
the body of water,
small stone-fruits create
fleshy 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 moisture
to air. He chose not 
to feed, and instead gouged
tufts of Bermuda grass
pushing the wet earth 
aside and reserving space
for the owl’s shadow.