He paints a pastoral scene
over them
as she watches, back 
against the screen
stroking the panting dog,
pulpy thrush breath
against her cheek.
In this heat,
dog and woman
watch him 
through the threshold
as he covers
the canvas green.
The dog goes for water,
checks the foxhole
then sleeps in the grass
back against the door, 
as close as his body 
can get. She feels 
she’s swallowed paint. 
 
His work is sloppy —
a raised outline of them 
lingers now in his new field 
thrashed with 
young stalks.
 
The dog sleeps outside 
in the dark.
He is unmoved.