Posted: Jun 29, 08 5:52am

A few years ago I used to raise and show Shetland Sheepdogs,or Shelties.Hence the following little narrative I wrote---it started out as a poem but just seemed to expand into a freeverse version of poetry.

It was later published in a small magazine out of California called,Sheltie Pacesetter---it`s the only thing I ever had published,or attempted to.

This particular piece is a writing style I developed with a great deal of difficulty---it was written at what I call,"the top of my heart`s voice".

Ergo,it takes an abundant amount of energy(and aloneness)to write even two or three paragraphs.

Anyway,I hope y`all like it...

---Rick

A SUMMER PLACE

The Florida summer evening seems to drift in, quietly like smoke, and gentle as a gathering of dreams. From the porch step where I sit I can see the sun descending westward, down upon the admixture of pines and palms, a bright orange ball of radiance amid pastels.

My Shelties run, acknowledge me, then run again and bark; most times at things apparently only seen by them. Their sable coats, sometimes, seem crimson in this waning sun; their eyes are bright, alert, content, amused, so solely Sheltie-like. They play their romping games near me as if I was their private audience. An aisle seat on these porch steps. I reflect, smiling to myself. A box seat on the stairs, with approval in my eyes their only craved applause.

I look back to the sun, touching the horizon’s treetops now. There are more pastels, more deepening shades of orange and,yes, now silhouettes and subtle shadows. And again, as with every day at This time, the memory of Sally, my first Sheltie of 20 years ago appears—I swear, most times like now. I can see her face in the pastel bonnet of the falling sun. From 20 years ago she looks at me and smiles, as only Shelties seem to do. And I look back with all the love I had and always will. Then, when I blink, she’s gone; the sun is halfway in the trees while dusk arises from the ground like London fog. She’s gone,but only to another part of...evermore.

I look back to reality and the numerous Shelties in my yard. They’re all so beautiful, I muse, like Sally was—or is, that is, when she appears. Most are show-quality and seem to move as if held aloft by invisible wings. My trained eyes compare, and I can see Sally’s structural faults I was oblivious to at the time. And, again, I laugh aloud at how, nevertheless, Sally was and is more...absolute...than all the others hence. She was my first. She was the pet I always wanted as a child. She was my friend. In lonely and bewildering twilight times of youth, she was my friend. An absolute in absolutely empty—a summer place.

I look back to the sun to see if Sally’s there again, but now it’s almost gone. Darkness is arriving like an opiate haze, and cricket sounds are already carried on the tender Florida breeze. A corona of lambent light exists above the treetops where the sun sank moments ago. Perhaps, I think, it’s not a corona at all, but the glow of ‘Sally’s Sheltie smile. Perhaps, someday, I’ll know far sure...

My Shelties, now, as if aware of my mental absence these past few moments, gather around me at the steps; a couple of them come up and place their heads on my legs. I stroke their velvet coats and whisper their names in the familiar way of letting them know I love them. In reciprocation they smile and lick their lips to let me know that they love me. And, as I arise to go back into the house and bring everyone in for the night, I turn and look once more where the sun once was and softly say,"Goodnight. old friend, I’ll look for you again tomorrow.