The farmer and his tart

We spent the morning at the park before the temperatures crawled so high that not even the insects would dare to move. The dogs ran around like guinea hens on a mission, sniffing the scent of dogs that had walked before them, rolling around in the grass, running from clump of grass to clump of grass in obsessed discovery as if it were an Easter egg hunt, and playing chase with a couple of new dogs whose butts apparently smelled like friend, not foe. After about forty-five minutes, they collapsed side-by-side on the grass for a bit of a rest. And then this. She's about to spring back into action and he's about to break into some woeful country loved-her-and-lost-her song. Which is apropos since sometimes when I look at him I see a farmer in overalls whose young wife just left him for a boy in the city, and he's sitting on his front porch with a broken heart and no help at harvest time.