In the splintering rain
the old sheepdog sat on the dock
with hair like seaweed
waiting.
He did not note
the wood as it whimpered and rose
into snarls at every wave,
the few boats rubbing the dock
struggling to dry.
If the storm had let him see those two tumbling
blues trysting on the horizon, his innards
would not have clenched a bit.
Though he smelled a thousand times:
the rain like iron pots, the salt,
the seven generations of rotting whale
the rain could not shake out,
he did not care except perhaps a little
for the whale for he was hungry
and the hand he did not bite
had left to see
what some dumb beast could not.
