Ship’s Prow

When I glance over at Gilgamesh, his head out the car window, he’s scenting the wind, nostrils busy and happy. The way the light is, I can see only the silver of his clouding retina, and that he’s looking up at the clouds, at the sky racing overhead.


All concentration in his nose, his nose my ship’s prow.


Is he even seeing the clouds? Is it all nose in this moment? Is this how it will be when he’s blind and doesn’t even really know it, his vision gone to some vanishing point, his joy still close in, in molecules of information tasted and savored?


He pops his head back in to look at me, and the light shifts with his turn: brown again, dilated but focused. He whines at me, ears concerned, and I realize there are tears falling. Just love you, that’s all, I tell him. He blinks love back, returns to sky and scent. The onrush of everything.


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