(for Jake, 1989-2005)
The briar draws a perfect bead of blood
to tender flesh as my dog pulls his head
from tangled vines and brittle winter thorns.
He shakes and wags but otherwise remains
unfazed by such intrusions. He is quick
to note the next small heap of leaves, to check
the air, the ground, whatever molders there
or ripens here, and he’s been known to stare
at herds of deer for what must seem
eternities. But tails fly up and gleam
white in darker woods, and something’s gone.
At least, my hands ache from holding on
to him while all time runs, two crows scold
a hawk, and daylight turns to early cold.
— Elinor Ann Walker
Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels
