My zabuton doubles as a dog bed. Rose sleeps
there, full to the fur with mu. Glanced in
on a moonlit night; her slight white figure coiled
on the green cushion, shaking with quail dreams.
Sensing me, an eye opens, single tail-wag.
Back to sleep.
When she’s awake, she’s so awake I’m ashamed
of my own warm water dance, my sitting too long at the fire.

–Jim Harrison

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