White dog sleeping
head down
in the front yard in the sun
under the hibiscus.

Cat in the window
who will not stop staring
at the downy woodpeckers
on the suet cage 
who will not stop eating
although the cat in the window
will not stop staring.

There might have been
a once common, now rare toad
under the hostas
just now. I don’t bother
to check; leave it be,
I tell myself, today

seems to be going just fine
without me.

It makes sense, I suppose,
to point out that dog and cat
and even birds

feed on what I provide
and I planted the row of hostas
where that possible toad
is sheltering but

I think everyone
would be just fine, maybe even
better than fine, if 
I stopped this
and opened doors and gates
and lay down on the bed and
closed my eyes and let it all
go.  

It makes sense, I suppose, 
to invoke survival of the fittest
and contemplate how dog and cat
and birds and toad might clash
and struggle and there’s always
winter and other 
concerns but

I think it might all work out
over time if I just closed my eyes
and said it can’t hurt and let myself
sink into memory and ruins
and archaeology and 
rumors. 

It makes sense, I think,
to pay attention to the lack of regard
these others have for me
precisely when they are
this relaxed and 
apparently happy.