The tree is looking at the glitter on the river.
The river is, thousand eyed, watching the tree.
The tennis ball goes, a skip, into the inch highs.
The dog is charging, fur whipping, after.
"Two feet deep, fifty yards out, at least."
The nods are a relief. Hands still knit
waiting to see
if Oatmeal brings the ball back to shore
or plants it and wags his tail by the tree.
