Momo has been dead for a year. It doesn't seem like it's been that long. I can still feel his bony brow and soft, floppy ears. I can still hear him fall up the stairs. Summer is coming and it reminds me of the long hours he'd spend lying in the sun, so still and calm and wise-looking, like a furry monk in meditation, at one with the earth and her creatures, butterflies dancing on his ribs.

It's too important not to
With the breeze tickling my neck
Dust trails in the air
Follow what should be yours
And again
You ride peace like a donkey