I don’ t know why I named him Jack.
Soon we became a pack; two cats, another small dog,
and three people; me, my daughter and grand daughter.
Jack sleeps on my bed.
He has his own pillow next to my head,
where he migrates every night
beginning at the foot of the bed
to his pillow next to my head
as if he were an Arctic Tern migrating
20,000 miles each year.
Throughout the night
he snores, snuffles ,farts, kicks, gurgles and burbles
And he dreams.
All night long he dreams.
While I sleep through most of his movements and snores
I am privy, oddly so,
to his dreaming night life as the Little White Dog.
When we both wake up at dawn
I have remember Jack’s dreams
When he becomes The Little White Dog
As The Little White Dog Jack flis everywhere;
over abandoned fishing boats,
through Trees Of Life,
over the Isle of Skye,
through a red rock arch In Canyon Lands Utah
One foggy morning there he was
treading fog above the Golden Gate Bridge.
New places every night.
This story, in pictures ,
is Jack, as he is also