A stuffed dolphin—for years I stubbornly

Called a whale—

Well, well, well: 

Now, the stuffing lies scattered 

In the backyard.

Doesn’t really matter now

If it was a dolphin or

A whale. 

The dog went to war with it 

Nonetheless.

Regardless of its identity.

Now it has been torn into

Snowballs in the shape 

Of clouds—

Clouds in the shape 

Of snowballs

Floating in the uncut summer grass.

The robin’s hatchlings 

Chirp chirp chirp

For their mamma,

Still safely nestled in their

Home of twigs, grass, and leaves,

And maybe

Their mother will even bring them the

Luxury of fluff, 

from the deceased

Dolphin-Whale, lying overturned

On his back, his wide eyes watching me

As I write,

The same way he watched me 

As the dog ripped into his guts.

A lawn mower blares from a 

Neighboring yard,

Birds continue to twitter and chitter 

Around me, and I watch as 

A fly perches on 

His tattered blue snout.