The Bark and the Stripe by Lori Yamamoto

(The Stillness) From the grey pine bark, a small stripe watches the yard. Below, a great breath moves the slow ocean of fur. Brown eyes are fixed on a point. (The Calculation) The dog is a mountain that has forgotten how to move. One ear is a leaf caught in a private, soft wind tracing a scent-map upward. (The Declaration) The stripe believes it is part of the tree’s thinking. A flick of a tail writes a short, angry poem in the air between them. (The Accusation) "You are a sound," it says. "A heavy ghost leaning on the post of the sky. You disturb the quiet faith of my nuts, my stolen leaves." (The Illusion of Victory) "I am a thief of light, fast and so very thin. You are a statue of wanting. I will always…" The wind interrupts the thought. (The Shared World) A gust shakes the pine. The great head tilts. The stripe freezes. Two kinds of silence now hold their breath in the yard— one striped with fear, one with gold. **(Outro: Spoken)** The garden believes… in many small wars. Okay.