Across the street, along the park-side pavement
a black dog walked, and sniffed with three short snouts,
against the sage green grass sheen, dark coat
of his fur was an obsidian knife. The trees
blunted it, he was following closely
the terra cotta tiles.
At the little red shrine, he stopped to test
the lumps of breaking soil on his tongue, while
the other two broad heads kept watch eyes fixed
on the overcast skies, smelling for rain,
a cool breeze carried – that leafy
When the silver drizzling begun, the dog
was satisfied that his work was done,
and left the rest of the earth
Tan Ruey Fern (Fern) is an undergraduate student who loves language. She comes from Southeast Asia, where she spends most of her time reading and writing indoors. You can find more of her work on the blog Carboniferous Chronicles. She hopes readers can get something enriching out of her writing.