The sun comes in sideways,
a slow crawl over stucco walls.
I pour water for the dogs.
Charlie circles, Jadie stares me down.
In the yard, a hummingbird drills the air—
a jeweled little bastard,
impatient with the world.
Across the street, the neighbor’s chimes catch
a breeze that isn’t really there.
The valley smells of wet grass,
old coffee, and car exhaust.
It’s perfect.
No one is awake but us.
The dogs sniff the earth
like priests at confession.
Traffic hums somewhere out,
a far-off river of fools
chasing something.
Here, though—
the leash is loose,
my cup runs full,
the air is still cool enough
to forgive.
I think of poems,
of love,
of money,
of none of it.
Charlie rolls in dirt.
Jadie licks my hand
as if to say,
This is enough.
And Jesus,
maybe it is.
