Flint

There’s only one animal.

Never mind how much I admire
almost lustfully other species.

The great eagles that used to coast
on thermals outside our windows

when we lived near The Pinnacle
across from the Border Ranges.

Like dancers. Or like high divers
when they arrowed for their prey.

Sleek felines, big or domestic,
their shapes and the way they move.

Again, predators. Is it that I love
efficient, ruthless savagery?

Not so. I don’t love crocodiles.
(Sorry, Steve Irwin.) Cold brutes!

Nevertheless there is only
one animal. Not even the right kind.

Really I’m a cat person (obviously).
Not so mad on dogs. They’re nice enough….

Merely the only animal? Flint
is more: the only dog.

(A pang as I think of Dakota –
but he was mostly wolf.)

Flint who stood the height of my thigh.
Flint with the curly brown coat

and smooth forehead as if his hair was styled.
The slim front paws, the strong back legs.

Flint who was all kindness
despite his size and baying bark.

Flint who would have died for me.
Didn’t, but is dead.

There is no other.

April Poem A Day Challenge 2009. Prompt: an animal