Walking the Dog

I can't say I ever want to walk the dog last thing at night but once we're out, especially on nights like this, the rhythm sets in. A fifteen, twenty minute round is all it takes to put the day to bed.  The dog sets the pace, stopping at the usual corners to sniff and lift his leg and piss. We're in no hurry in the heat. We’re both on automatic, except if one of us scents or spots a raccoon - a flicker of drama catching us out of one dream state & into another.  Always this time of night the closing of the shutters & the garbage hauler pick ups, and always the random snatches of conversation.  A teen on a stoop, into his phone: "I mean I love you more than the fucking world," & a graying couple by the subway stairs (on Trump): "But what do we do about the man?" We're almost home when we pass a mother & a child, sitting on a bench outside a store. It's just the night for it. The boy is four or five, with cheeks like pillows. He's curled right into her; she only belongs to him.  It's her birthday, and he's singing to her softly in Spanish.  It's still May, but it's already summer.