Running with the Dog (Atty)

glosa, running with the dog

the river called to mind

a dog's docile tongue

or a dog's sad belly

or that other river

Joao Cabral de Melo Neto, Landscape of the Capibaribe River.

The hostas have yellowed

and street lights

turn the yellowing maples

into autumn chandeliers.

The dog runs ahead

to sniff each tree, each

garbage pail and post

until I pass and chide her,

my echoing words unheeded as if it were

the river called to mind.

Through the drift of leaves

we are a passing witness to:

a neighbour's muffled quarrel,

a skunk's,

sudden, stop,

a smoker on an unlit porch.

Someone is burning wood

in a fireplace, the smell

a remembered comfort as

a dog's docile tongue.

I begrudge this walk in the rain,

or when the snow turns raw

and it is not yet spring.

How easy it is not to walk;

push the dog alone into the yard

and close the door.

But this night now is a raft

with only us two in a yellowed stream,

no burrs to hook our passage

or a dog's sad belly.

She starts to slow

at a stooped recliner moored

curbside, hesitates. I steer her along.

There are no stars even at the

burnt out street light.

The night has a yellowing glow.

We're almost home, I say.

I want to linger,

not ready for the next season

or that other river.