Molly, my dog

She was orange and white and she fit in Tennessee;
Georgia was too hot but late Autumn was just right
When she would sniff her way intently across the furrowed fields
To catch that touch of bird-scent in the air
To suddenly stop, motionless, tied to some blood calling
Waiting for the Holy Spirit of birddogs to whisper some unspoken word or whistle
Which would break the spell-mandate running through her goosey brain
Goofy was the name we all used with Molly and goofy she was,
But so sweet, and if not for the madness in her eyes
Would have been disarmingly beautiful, for a dog,
With her fancy feathers and soft, silken coat
Never a harsh barked reproach or threatening grrr of noise
Just an unbroken desire to be as close to my side as possible
And a collection of licks of unconditional love on my ears.