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  • Writer's pictureNathan Groves

Old Dog (Cloudy)


asphalt compared

very little 

to the old oak tree 


baking in the sun 

dreaming half awake 

and licking at wounds 

scabbed a hundred times over 

a desperate longing 

for a scent of silage 

and rough, blistered hands 

what simple acts of love 

held so much weight now 

wide-eyed open prairies 

and the desire to run 

we’re softened 

by cataracts

and brittle bones that couldn’t 


Old Dog 

learned new tricks 

but they were forgotten 

somewhere between 

the butterfly just out of reach 

and the side of the road 



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