booming across the water;
the dog refused to go out
and so, this morning, he is desperate;
as desperate to drop his load
as I am – having been
fed by an evening of poetry –
to set pencil to a page.
Hoping for a quick turnaround,
I leash him up and take him to the beach,
and yes, even as the lines in my head
peck like fledglings at their eggs,
struggling to be free,
he squats, and now I’m hoping to turn back
but he pulls me forward,
straining at the leash
even as these images are pulling me
back to my desk.
The zen companion in my head
is whispering, barely heard above the din,
the wordwaves crashing behind my eyes,
“it’s a beautiful day, and you’re not here”
and so I pause and listen, not to the fledglings'
anxious squawking,
the frantic flapping of their damp unfeathered wings
but to the full-grown gulls
squabbling over coveted clams;
the bright green hiss of seaweed
the dog has paused to water,
the sky, so unexpectedly blue, reflected
in the shells at our feet,
and now he’s off again and I’m resisting
the pull of the leash
while he’s trudging forward,
nose to the sand, each of us
following some invisible trail,
the thin black line between us
stretched to breaking as we poke at piles
of phrases, or of bones,
following the fragrance to the source of delicious,
each dragging the other off the scent;
each drawn by that primal tug toward wonder.
