Although I have two ears, the dog park becomes a clumsy circus when small talk splits a seam. Our pinball thoughts tumble & trip with chatter & remembrance. As animals with animals, we are counterpoint. There is no attention in the sky or the break of a siren. Or rivers that never get recorded. What does it mean to finish? We speak of the hoarder’s house on the edge of the peninsula. Am I policing norms by nodding? The dogs play at violence. Precarious constellation of narrative: tiny raindrops, traffic closures, provisions described and endorsed. Management of decomposing cells. Apolitical, so you say. The stream breaks into two: one thinks of Joyce and the other is undefined. How I always feel, but somewhat more green. The wings of discourse, or a small plane that drops discord. Non-emergent property of casual attempts at connection or inspiration. This is not so much Homer’s Odyssey. The dogs are not listening, although they have two ears.