He sits,
minding his own business-
though I sometimes think I catch his change of mood
if just the slightest breeze
with the smallest pink cloud
ruffles his stone mane.

Mostly, he lounges while the small dog and I
take some air as they once said
about women of a certain age
with their precious pets
or maybe that was just made up in the novels
I used to read.

The walk is lovely this time of year-
each corner filled with honeysuckled bird songs
and the insistent voices
of the meadow grasses in the lake cooled wind.

Perched in the old hickory,
a tattered bowl of sweet grass
and raffia,
holding tiny eggs of alabaster
and anointed life.

We create nests,
cobbled together with books and corners and walks
with small dogs,
as life moves along our late afternoon paths,
past concrete lions
resting in a neighbors drive
until the next pink cloud
scoots along
in the slightest spring breeze
or until the barking of a small dog
ruffles his mane.