A Poem by George Moore

Ode to the Dead Dog Next Door

The spring was quiet. The pine,
thick in the air. In the mountains
where we live, it’s calm and still.

Occasionally at dawn
you can hear a magpie caw
weave its way up the canyon,

dissipate and disappear,
crossing the high ridge. The sun
might be the loudest thing around.

It descends the neighborhood,
its tongue crawling across the porch
to slip beneath the door.

No children here to break
the mind into its many little pieces.
And no one starts a car till noon.


George Moore George Moore

George Moore’s poetry appears in The Atlantic, Poetry, North American Review, Antigonish Review and Colorado Review, as well as in journals in England, Ireland, Australia, and New Zealand. Nominated this year for two Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Web Awards, Best of the Net Awards, The Rhysling Poetry Award and The Wolfson Poetry Prize, his books include Headhunting (2002) and All Night Card Game in the Back Room of Time (2007). When not traveling to artist residencies in Europe, he teaches literature and writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder.

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