When I push open the screen door, plop
the garbage in the bin and snap the lid
back shut, the neighbor's dog two
houses over starts to bark. How tuned in
it seems to the smallest shift in its universe.
The sound it makes in reciprocation is either
alarm, question, or warning. The crows, too,
startle at my approach, though they are
quicker to size me up and dismiss me
as of no consequence to their foraging
in the gravel. I wish I could meet
the world with that kind of unerring
intuition, prickle to a presence that could
either be kind or unkind, well-meaning or
mean— and in that heightened watchfulness,
be more present. I know I've made my share of
wrong judgments, been ungenerous when I
could have shown more forbearance, less
defensive snarl. The cold afternoon light
still is light. The harsh weight of darkness
is hours yet away, and like mercy,
the moon makes an early show of its face.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
