It all starts with the weather. Comes a day when summer…
This blacktop tells of possum scent
But I lead myself to a red dirt rising,
Where lanky pine trees bend
And whistle in wind.
I stop and sniff, then pace
Again, a dog intent on going somewhere.
I travel with squared haunches
Past tobacco fields all yellow
With a tawny scent and let
The bumblebee buzz me by.
Even in sleep my paws twitch
With the dream of this plateau:
I’m running to the creaking pines,
Orange with dust, padding over silent straw.