Thanksgiving Day and my sweet black dog
wakes me just in time to see the miracle of
sunrise a stunning display of orange pink blue
on this morning, the dawn itself so ephemeral
that as I drift a moment or two, poof! the
brilliance has passed. Left with what could
be termed normal if such a word applies to
anything as miraculous as morning, I rise
to make my tea and the dogs go out into
the yard as if no magic has occurred.
We’ll not go to the woods today
my stalwart dogs and I
yesterday’s bad incident
having given me the heebie jeebies
and I having made what I believe
to be every possible mistake
cannot quite resolve the thing.
I’d like the other dog banned
from our favorite place
shipped off to a farm
somewhere far from here.
I’d like to rest plainly in the knowledge
that every mean-spirited dog would be
rebuffed from us by an invisible forcefield
radiating out in a comfortable golden circle
of protection forever & ever.
Amen.
Longest closest best view of the great blue heron
perched on the arm of a dead tree still
reaching out over the creek like a beggar.
My dogs crashed about, loose, I not wanting
to call them lest I frighten away that magnificent bird.
Oh I suppose they are commonly enough seen
around here and that particular one I’ve spotted
just there at that bend in the creek many times.
Nevertheless the longest closest best view ever
is a thing to celebrate.
In the mornings we go to the woods
my two dogs and I and I
stay on the paths but they
plunge in and out of brush
and bramble picking up
on their curly coats all
manner of burr and briar
sticktight and sticker.
In the evenings my son
and I take turns plucking
all of the bits carefully off.
By bedtime they are picked clean
ready to start all over again next morning.
Fall approaches
Beckons the reclusive life
holed up in my house with
dogs, shut the doors,
draw the curtains.
Self-contained here in
our small home
shortened days
mysterious nights
Contemplate a move
up north Canada or Scotland
Shut out the damp with
a neat little fire
Wander new woods and bogs
walking stick in hand
two dogs racing ahead
Return home to our quiet
place and in the evening
patch ourselves together
into a living breathing quilt.
Still and dark with only crickets for conversation
a pink pocket of light appears above the trees.
So something is happening after all.
Now comes another pink ribbon drawn
through the blue dress of sky followed by
another and another and the lightening.
Lovely dawn making its slow, inimitable way
into the town and across my windows.
Comes another day. Holding what?
Holding what for us in its open palms?
We shall leave this room, my dogs and I,
and find out.
Pileated woodpecker sat just there high up
in a tree very near our path and I crept along
hoping for a better and better view
my dogs wondering at my stealthy self.
We’ve seen a great blue heron every day
for five in a row at the bend of the creek
my dogs ahead of me always so that I
only catch a glimpse of her lifting up
and away, off immediately beyond
anyplace I can see. Miles chases.
The heron, like the Canada geese, is
tantalizing to him though what he would do
if he caught up to her I cannot know.
What would I, having caught up to
that one dream, do then with my ever
hopeful heart?
And so we trip along the paths of wood and meadow
taking in everything, the call of the pileated woodpecker
sending a ruffle of ahhhhh! through my body
the light in the trees the cool touch of the morning air
the rasping of cicadas, the scampering of my two dogs
the wild devotion with which they apply themselves
to this quotidian place as if they have never ever ever been
here before, as if every leaf and stem is brand new
as if Life itself has just this moment burst open in them
and sent them rocketing down the path.
He stopped short of saying he likes dogs better than people
as if any of us standing there in the midst
of that pile of dogs would take offense
as if anyone was taking note keeping track
totting up points for or against rather than
remaining ever so busy in our minds’ eyes
comparing our own dogs favorably
against all the others.
My boon companions lead off
into everywhere far and near
destinations of the heart
beyond the rock cairn
built by others ignoring
the sycamore’s pointing arm
clambering over the difficult
bluff knowing something raw and loose
seeing something I cannot
patiently leading on and on
without recompense.