the neighbor's smallest dog is barking at me:
a shadow in the pale darkness swinging back and forth
piously beneath the boxelder tree.
my breath clouds and smears against the pinkish sky
sallow gray trickling up through stark branches
darker than the night itself.
i like to imagine the chains letting go
and disconnecting from each other, the i bolts,
and the planks of cedar or pine nailed to the boxelder tree.
i am no sail boat nor hot air balloon
who could release herself from her dock
and simply give up gravity for the fetching wind,
until my feet and my boots slam into the frozen ground.
i stumble some distance away--suffering its weight all at once.
the swing still sways back and forth.
