In the summer’s weary end is when
I most miss my brindled, piebald boy
After the sunflowers’ faces, upturned
Reaching towards the sky
Become parched and resigned to die
When he’d uproot and seize
Their crusty stalks like a lance
In his magnificent jaws
And charge across the yard
Like a triumphant conqueror
Vanquishing the last glint of a retreating sun
