Rory the dog lies red-brown and stretched flat on the world,

Dead-dog and long as a child there, making noises in his sleep.

Good to be bone-tired dog, river-wet, so asleep uncurled

That the day's gorge and running and fighting is his to keep

To be dog about, and sprawl another way for his ribs, and sigh.

He dreams, I hope, of Rory O'Mory, the reddest fox in Ireland.

His feet move. He is remembering the downs of the bare land

Where his great-great-grandbitch felt the green wind at her thigh

That ruffled her hind-leg hair as young Rory's is ruffled now.

He whimpers and breathes hard. It must be a good dog dream.

Smoothed and small as his skull is, his long ears flung anyhow,

It stirs with crazy chasing, and bone-smells, and moon-gleam.

Sitters in chairs, who wear books on our hands, and shoes

On our feet, who never simply lie down flat on the floor,

We, too, turn often and make noises in sleep as a dog does,

Though we are Tall in power, and give Food, and Open the door.

The Irish setter is all shoulders and big paws and wet eyes,

And jumps up on anyone, asking in good dog, as he can,

It's all right, it's all right, isn't it, according to plan?

He dreams about it. Dreaming awake more than can be said,

I wake him to be with me. I try out of my dream as he tries,

Tries, to know what my slow hands say, shaping his head.