I threw a snowball across the backyard.
My dog ran after it to bring it back.
It broke as it fell, scattering snow over snow.
She stood confused, seeing and smelling nothing.
She searched in widening circles until I called her.
She looked at me and said as clearly in silence
as if she had spoken,
I know it's here, I'll find it,
went back to the center and started the circles again.
I called her two more times before she came
slowly, stopping once to look back.
That was this morning. I'm sure that she's forgotten.
I've had some trouble putting it out of my mind.
From the simply inimitable Miller Williams, who passed away on the first day of 2015.
I love that "she said as clearly in silence as if she had spoken." Don't believe that could have been better written. Believe that Williams listened as well as any American writer to the unheard voices — human and otherwise — all around us.