The dog cavorts in the shifting red and yellow mosaic
of late autumn leaves on the ground
and pauses for a moment to look at us
as if she's looking on behalf of everything,
lending sight to a blind world in disarray around her.
Is it only my guilt
that makes me sense an accusation behind those eyes?
You say perhaps it's pity.
The world is not blind, we are,
encountering the world as an obstacle,
our sense of self emerging from unexpected impediments
as we stumble and stop and struggle to understand our pain
while observed by creatures at ease with their angelic nature.
