nipping at your ghost

his masters voice

”Nipper” A small dog waits beside the brass horn, ears lifted, body held in that soft readiness only devotion can teach. Once a wanderer, he learned the shape of shelter in the warmth of a single voice. Now the room is quiet, yet he leans toward the horn's bright mouth as though a familiar breath might rise again from its painted metal. Brush in hand, he works the canvas again, colours deepening around the small dog's frame. The horn waits, bright at the rim, and the dog leans toward it, steady as breath before a word. Nothing moves in the room except the faint shift of his ears, as though some quiet spark might rise from the metal and meet him halfway. .