under the ticking of the clock. I don’t know what the dog hears. I hear the central heating. I hear a truck and a plane outside. I don’t hear birds twittering. The dog rolls over into the shade. It was in the sun too long, panting in its sleep. Only one minute now. I wish I’d hear something less apparent. I’m getting bored. The dog is in the sun again, like a breath of stale air.
October 1972