The black gamboling dog herds a small band of travelers around a hurling pitch. A park encloses the pitch. The bay water in turn surrounds the western edge of Galway, which huddles close to the rest of Ireland. On the south side of the inlet, a glass highrise. Small houses, orderly in size and spacing, follow the road up around the hill to the north.
The travelers take turns throwing a stick for the dog and picking the rocks for a noteworthy handful; tossed crabs, miles-weary drifted worn debris. The seabirds have collected behind a windbreak behind a boatramp. No boats are out today. No men, legs like tree trunks, lungs like flour sacks, want the pitch.
When the band has completed the circuit, the dog works back to his beginnings, across the grass, leeward of a small shack, where a sausage or bun just might drop.
The travelers take turns throwing a stick for the dog and picking the rocks for a noteworthy handful; tossed crabs, miles-weary drifted worn debris. The seabirds have collected behind a windbreak behind a boatramp. No boats are out today. No men, legs like tree trunks, lungs like flour sacks, want the pitch.
When the band has completed the circuit, the dog works back to his beginnings, across the grass, leeward of a small shack, where a sausage or bun just might drop.
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