She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog. She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile -- and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her cunning elbows, and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming perfect arch of her neck. It took four of us to carry her into the woods. We did not think of music, but anyway, it began to rain slowly. Her wolvish, invitational half-pounce. Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something. My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash of happiness as she barged through the pitch pines swiping my face with her wild, slightly mossy tongue. Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat? He is wiser than that, I think. A dog lives fifteen years, if you're lucky. Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds think it is all their own music? A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the trees, or the laws which pertain to them. Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment of her long slumber? A dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing. Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace of his own making? She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or wait for me, or be somewhere. Now she is buried under the pines. Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and not to be angry. Through the trees there is the sound of the wind, palavering. The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste of the infallible energies? How strong was her dark body! How apt is her grave place. How beautiful is her unshakable sleep. Finally, the slick mountains of love break over us. -- Her Grave by Mary Oliver --
Windycitygal 