"If dogs don't go to Heaven, then, when I die, I want to go where they go." Will Rogers.

 “I lay on the grasses in rolling fog,

In yellow hayrattle and fairy flax,
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

The snipe chirps out her plaintive monologue,
A skylark warbles while diving her tracks,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog;

Sky continues his subtle dialogue,
The sun recites hymns to the zodiacs,
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

The peaceful clouds roll by in epilogue
Casting shadows of forgotten syntax,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog;

The meadow hums in ancient analog,
Oxeye daisies keep their secretive pacts
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

I need no other church or synagogue
Within my particular parallax,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog.”

― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor