This is what we are given: soap and bees and dark tea, coyotes calling on August nights, milk and mist and the amazing nub of a brown nipple that stands up when it gets cold, the subtle smell of earthworms tunneling soil, eating dirt. This is enough and still there is more. Today I saw the black face of a dog lean out of a truck window to sniff the air, his pink tongue flapping in the wind, and I knew he could taste the sun, the snowmelt, the early gnats and pollens, his nostrils swelling with the cool silver scent of car bumpers, grocery bags filled with sweet yellow peppers and deep red meat, even the lushness of a single shoestring, mine, dragged down damp streets and along ripe forest paths. The dog seemed satisfied, his body pure contentment beyond gratitude, which, like grief, doesn’t last. I don’t know where that black-faced dog is now. But the sun is smearing its white light over us as it does every day, and tonight the cold moon, as always, will turn its blistered cheek toward us whether we see it or not, and all of this is enough.