Muzzle of Gray

Many mornings
Have passed through the years
Spring, summer and autumn
He is always there
Laying under the sugar maple tree
Leaving his spot only to winter
Returning early spring
To brisk, frosty mornings
Which he seems to love
He is always there
A ball of thick, black fur
An aging muzzle
Now mostly gray
This morning he was hard to see
He was under a beautiful autumn blanket
Gently laid upon him by the sugar maple tree

Roy L. Nave
November 2000