Walking the Dogs

Every day around four
they come to stare at me;
follow me around the house
expectantly - as if to say -
it’s time to go now.
I know it, but always stretch it out
another hour or so
until they are in a frenzy -
Rosie tossing her head like a filly
and Rocky spinning -
a polka-dotted dervish.
They trip me up before
I can even get to the door
as they yank me into the street.

The late afternoon sun slants
(a xanthic beam)
across the shrubbery
as the plumbago flares
into a living conflagration
of blue sparks.
The dogs pull their leashes
hard in opposite directions,
pulling me off kilter,
threatening me with the feel
of asphalt crashing into my knees;
doesn’t take much
to throw me these days.

Then I see it.
An osprey buoyant
upon the aerial currents,
wing tips spread like fingers;
gliding against the firmament,
taking my breath with it.
For a moment I see
the tops of trees and houses,
small movements on the ground -
the flash in the water.
We swoop to extract the wriggling prey
from its submerged existence,
bear it to a pine limb
and breach the scaly carcass.

The dogs tug me to the ground.


© 2000 Melissa Songer