He had calico hair
Streaks of burned orange
Patched with black char.
Silver iced the temples,
Eyes filled with
Irish Mist.
Beautiful, even as he was
Gasping, hands tearing into
Grass and dirt.
Sad…really.
The way he scrambled,
Struggling, like a mouse between
Paws.
Sad the way he looked at me
As if I could do something more.
Like I could fight off Death
And win.
I laid down in the grass on my
Belly, close to him, chin resting
In my soft gentle hands.
The angle of his jaw
And cheeks made the gray sticky
Swatch over his mouth nearly sexy.
The ground finally gave
And he tumbled.