Whenever we place our dogs
away in the garden
for the night,
I wonder if they wonder
if we are the ones in charge
of the sun going down
and the moon appearing
like a lone eye,
always in the process
of slowly blinking
in and out
of the night sky.
 
Do they have myths
about us, their masters,
going up to space
on a ladder
as if we are merely
changing a lightbulb
on the ceiling of our house?
 
Or do they sense,
as they wag their tails
and howl at the stars,
that there is some other
greater hand
that covers one side
of the world
like a blanket,
a father, perhaps,
tucking his children
and singing them lullabies
with the wind?