Dog on the Lake Path
A dog is there to remind you of struggle,
to turn your mind to the true function
of the walking stick, to give your vocal
chords some exercise apart from
Gloria in excelsis Deo.
It’s one day before Christmas,
a blinding shining day of snow.
The path is carved with rabbit tracks,
delicate signs. You sigh, this time
a cardinal’s flash might free you,
enthral you, break that knot again—
and then this dog
hopping and snarling out
from around the corner, barking
toward you, stealing your tongue
just before that moment when—
but now, alarm, some old bitterness,
a gift which was not for you,
you yell, drive him off
with anger,
look long at his brutal
clumsy innocent footprints
and turn around.
