Bounty

Squirrels execute their difficult runs
along twisted branches with precision.
She worries that the Thanksgiving nuts we left
on the deck might weigh down their nests
past the breaking point.
I smile, imagining walnuts and pecans
stashed beside them while they sleep.
They probably store their food in other places,
but it charms me to suppose
they have that bounty close at paw.

December 8 2018

Leave It

I heard them say leave it
and I knew what they were talking about,
because the owl or whatever it was
had been killed some days ago
and it left its downy feathers
spread like snow on the sandy path.
Dogs take these things without reflection.
Death is just something to nose at
or carry along
an unwanted wing gripped tightly in the teeth
until a better toy presents itself,
perhaps a tennis ball or a stick.
I try to be a dog,
but being only human, fail.

December 7 2018

Recovery

It is more the way his body sinuous
makes an S of his spine
for his muscle and fur to follow--
one leg cocked, forefeet planted,
while his muzzle points the line
of his wariness--
than the difficult letters my frame can't fold into
but still can't keep from trying.

October 11 2018

Morning Walk

We wake up everyone.
Not a dog but knows we're passing.
I'm surprised the roses don't bark.

September 28 2018

Porches

Marshes have porches,
which comforts me.
I imagine my astral body standing
where the trees end
and the trail runs into mud
and tall salt grass,
thick as the fur of a yellow dog
lying at the foot of the steps.

August 9 2018

It is indeed 4:30 and we're out
treading the snowfall under the flowering apple
while the birds tune up for morning.
Ha: His call of nature coincides with theirs.
I leave him quiet on his bed
and take my chilled feet back upstairs
for one more hour
trying to memorize these lines.

May 18 2018

Recovery

Winter's back is broken.
The plows pushed nothing up and down the street
last time it snowed here.
The dog has found new grass to eat,
and sometimes we walk farther.
Monsters never die easily,
and tree buds keep a tight hold on their promises,
but planets always circle.
Only after a weekend do you notice:
The room is brighter when you wake.

February 25 2018

Ceremony

The rock they burned the flags on is an anvil, rusted black by the river
long before the fire. I remember the boy scouts jumping around,
glad to be near the water, and oblivious to the occasion.
I asked the man what was happening,
and he told me what I suspected: Retirement,
following which the ashes would be interred with all due ceremony.
This is one way to say goodbye to things respected but worn out.
I had no image that day of a dog's body and no place to bury it,
or a longship waiting by the fishing pier
to carry a warrior's flaming corpse to sea.

February 13 2018

Flying

Flying, flying, flying,
over those fields, those familiar fields,
the clouds, the well-known clouds,
and those mountains everyone has seen from above;
they are dreams lived repeatedly,
and nothing new is known about them here.
But still, flying, flying, flying
is as welcome as home, dear home,
till waking takes us from the air
to a darkened room,
and leaves the dreams still flying.

December 4 2018