The Hunter and the Figs

. . . the things of the night cannot be explained
in the day, because they do not then exist . . .
                                                —Ernest Hemingway

Victimizing a final slice of fig tart
and morning’s first hot cup—the best one—
I have failed so far to banish the night,
light flashing curtain, on the floor
holding my old dog as he trembled.

For a decade he was fearless of thunder,
then he wasn’t. We lay a long while,
panting, whispering, waiting for calm.
Outside that ecstatic window we sniffed
long-eared remains, and I have been preoccupied

with the killer’s identity, roaming cat
or young hawk lately whistling over roof.
This matters nothing to rabbit, or dog,
or storm. I say again it is morning,
the mutt has emptied himself and come in happy.

Hot earth has cracked. The rain
never arrived, only fury without relief.
For the tart, my wife supplied crust
and buttery cream, I figs from the season’s
first raid on the Baptists. I parked

in a spot reserved for “Minister of Music,”
filled cooler with dark, warm handfuls of loot.
Somewhere I have lost my trepidation.
There’s no more time for foolishness.
The last bite, and a dish to be licked clean.

Copyright © 2008 Gaylord Brewer All rights reserved
from The Martini Diet
Dream Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission