Musings #8


I have grown out of sync

with the phases of the moon,

the sun’s risings.

Without my dog’s urgency –

pajamas, coffee and the paper

keep me indoors.

But last night’s spring storm

– and three years gone –

call me out.

A meadowlark’s greeting holds

notes I’ve not heard before.

And skulked into the ravine hours ago,

coyote’s tracks have sunk and softened.

The sky is bluing behind gray clouds,

the pond unfrozen.

Neighbor dogs – like mine once –

bound through deep snow,

stopping only to lick out clumps

between the pads of their paws.

Someone wrote I love you in the white field,

leaving the rest