If the flies did not hurry themselves to the window
they’d still die somewhere.

Other creatures choose the other dimension:
                                                                       to slip
into a thicket, swim into the shaded, undercut
part of the stream.

                               My dog would make her tennis ball
disappear into just such a hollow,
pushing it under the water with both paws.
Then dig for it furiously, wildly, until it popped up again.

A game or theology, I couldn’t tell.

The flies might well prefer the dawn-ribboned mouth of a trout,
its crisp and speed,
                                    if they could get there,
though they are not in truth that kind of fly
and preference is not given often in these matters.

A border collie’s preference is to do anything entirely,
with the whole attention. This Simone Weil called prayer.
And almost always, her prayers were successful—
                                                                              the tennis ball
could be summoned again to the surface.

When a friend’s new pound dog, diagnosed distempered,
doctored for weeks, crawled under the porch to die, my friend crawled after,
pulled her out, said “No!”,

as if to live were just a simple matter of training.
                                                The coy-dog, startled, obeyed.
Now trots out to greet my car when I come to visit.

Only a firefly’s evening blinking outside the window,
this miraculous story, but everyone hurries to believe it.