Midday, June

Inside, my big mutt dog,
who looks like an Anatolian
but whose mother is surely a Great Pyrenees,
sprawls across my treadmill
all snores, ivory fur, and black face.

Outside, the sky is smudged charcoal,
the air that peculiar clear green I’ve only seen
in Oklahoma when the atmosphere is charged
and ripe for a tornado.

Still, I pull on rubber boots
and walk outside for inspiration
to write a purely visual poem.