My dear Saint Bernard Sunday,
you July me with your dry ranges
your sheep dappled smile
your solitary protector donkey
Our dance is left right and again
repetition being the name of your wind
from the southeast, you smell my birth
a new vision of a life after dawn
Scrubjay-approved, vociferous
where stubborn dogs our toes
our shared feet measured in eyefulls
we walk together, today and this self,
Becoming third persons
observers free from effects
calling the asphalt and smoky skes
what they are: constructions after our fires.
Roman Ryan 