Walking Belle

Orion reclines to east and south
at six a.m. in December.
Our faces are set for home.

It's cold. It's dark.

Belle stops and squats at spots;
she marks good reading,
though the drops she has to give
have dwindled down.

I wonder at her need.
I say: “It’s cold.
We should be heading home.”

She takes her own sweet time.
She’s not concerned.

With great relief,
I turn the key and push.
She enters in,
as she were a queen.

I wave my hand to stars that still are out
and shut the door.

When she was young,
we would have made a racket,
a love duet
we sang responsively together.

But now she's old.
She stares, instead, at the pocket
from whence treats come.