Black Coffee. Very Black Coffee.
Yellow can, thick black print: “Cafe Bustelo“.
Wicker chair, big dog sleeping under the shade of a canopy, enjoying the morning air.
Dog moves her head up, with a low, quiet growl emerging, followed by a second growl, followed by a third growl. I look where she’s looking at, northeast, a multitude of evergreens, a good number of lodge pole pines, and I don’t see what she sees, and I don’t hear what she hears. I look back at the dog. She has finished her surveying, is once again lying down, has gone back into her slumber, and I wonder what she has started to dream about. But some things, I will never know. I don’t see what she sees. I don’t hear what she hears. I don’t dream like she dreams. God is like that.