The Walk

The dog always knows when it’s time

to take me for a walk, reminding me

with her whining and pawing,

a soft yip on my more forgetful days,

so we leash ourselves together

and she takes me out, down the stairs

and through the back door to the outside,

outside the house and outside ourselves;

she knows where to take me, down which paths

to go, our route through the woods little varied,

few choices offered us, so leashed and tethered,

she leads me onward, patient in my falling behind her,

lollygagging, lost in my own thoughts thinking,

pulling me forward, to speed me up,

to join her, her muscles straining against my pull,

or me marching too far ahead, too fast, she, patient,

slow behind me, stopping, her nose seeking out a smell,

the fox that crossed before us, or a leaf,

a blade of grass, or the squirrel hiding above, in the treetops,

calling to her to play, calling to us,

and charging forward past me, tail out straight,

ears pulled back, she calls to me, “come, man,

run with me, race the wind, and win” or “slow down,

stop and listen, hear the mouse burrowing below the snow,”

earth’s music, buried there, faintly heard by those in tuned,

as we are, man and dog, tethered, leashed, best-friend-bound;

so I plod on steadily, by rote, listening, feeling

earth’s rhythms in the crunch of snow beneath my feet,

one foot in front of the other, routine,

and she lets me go, go where I will,

an eye kept out for me, as mine for her,

leaving me with my thoughts, composing

lines of verse in my head, composing myself,

walking the dog and wondering, what poetry

does she write, walking here with me,

falling behind or racing ahead, in-tuned?