Gemotions

The old dog, Buster, lumbered over, thumping his tail against the wooden deck. He rested his chin on my knee, his eyes half-closed. This was his favorite spot, right at the edge of the world. The new neighbors’ plans for a fence hadn't affected our rituals.

I scratched behind his ears, feeling the familiar warmth of his fur. The evening sun cast long shadows across the lawn. It was a comfortable sort of stillness, a peace that ran deep within the very bones.

"Easy, boy," I murmured, watching the last of the birds settle into the trees. The fence felt like an intrusion to the rhythm of his life, but it couldn't touch the essential order of things.