At 7:00 PM, you stand on the roof of your building, looking down to a dog, far below. “How would it feel to be that dog?” you wonder aloud, then, laughing, turn your gaze to the sunset. You love the sunset. Oh, how good the colors make you feel! Almost dizzy with the glow, you fling your arms out and spin in an ecstatic circle, stopping only to peer, once more, over the edge. You see that the dog is still there and that he is looking up. You wonder if maybe he sees you and if he wonders what it would be like to be you. You laugh out loud and, eyes sweeping the glowing horizon, you turn and leave the roof.
Note to Len:
I'm feeling really tentative about this; maybe the line isn't as fine as I think?
Note to Susan Budig:
Does this qualify as a prose poem? (Another area in which I am not at home.)