-Sun-

The Sun will explode in five billion years

But I’ll be very old and ready to go.

I'm looking into a more stable environment for the dog

Get him out of the city before it's too late

Maybe a quiet cattle ranch in southwestern

Oklahoma where I've been told the Sun

Allows for exceptions to its inevitable end.

He can run around chasing the old pickups

Delivering farm-fresh vegetables,

Spare parts for a neighbor's cranky machinery,

And the doomed, crate-stuffed chickens
Traveling fast in the dust 

Along with the breakfast eggs they made.

The dryness of the narrow roads

Link the small distant farms with a frayed hand,

Dry planet to dry planet.

Murmur of bloated tires

And the muted 
Throaty calls of four-

Legged animals in late afternoon
Are the tread-worn hymns —
The songs of rural America, lucky dog.

The luckiest chickens are the few 
Who get to stick their beaks
Between the wire-
Looped slats to the rushing air
For one last breath.

When the cool-blue Moon rolls
Over the silos

Everything moves to the front porch
And to stillness.

Songs of vibrating crickets harmonize with the slow

Creaking wood of the rockers under infinite skies.

Dog sleeps at their feet in southwestern Oklahoma.

I’ll be very old when the Sun explodes.