I think that my dogs know peace. They awake—mostly alert—ready for the ball and the chase of each other’s tail and collar. Energy is stored in running containers until they are released from the push of canine demands. It is time to lap some water, find a cool place on the floor, the hardwood covered in water-splotches of thirst’s relief. The morning’s first comfort brings them to that hard-won tranquility. Their breathing, usually quick and regular, now slowly lets it pace receded to dream-life, the occasional yelp and twitch in mid-stride. I do not know their morning dreams, but all their effort has brought them to a place tinged by chase and water. It is peace.
Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller and poet. He holds degrees in philosophy and religious studies. He lives in Michigan with his wife and three dogs and piles of unread books.
