The Language of Nature

They are quite small our two little
pampered dogs, depending upon us
for their security in an otherwise 
uncertain world, but this day I am
unable to defend them against a threat
that makes them fearful. Where I go
there go they in tandem those black
hairy siblings for where I am there is
safety. A safety whose assurance was
distorted when we stepped out into the
garden, my destination for there was
much to be done. It was a whirlwind
we stepped into one whose force
rattled and shook the metal canopy
over the deck and resoundingly strange
echoes ensued for which they were
unable to account, eliciting barks and
howls and nervous trotting which no
amount of verbal reassurance aided
so in they went, to wait apprehensively
for my return. But my attention turned
to the tasks of pruning ornamental trees
and shrubs, staking irises the wind had
collapsed, tying up clematis vines on
this lovely late-spring day, a true and
honest Goldilock not-too-warm nor
too-humid day after last night's rainfall
appreciating the wind combing through
my hair, cooling me as I wielded the
pruning shears and loppers, taking the
time to assess late-spring blooms the
garden yet awaiting the buds of roses
and peonies to burst into full-dimension
multi-petalled form and colour, loving
the communion with my garden while
two little puppies languished indoors.