Morning rain escalated into an early afternoon thunderstorm, which, if the forecast is correct, will spawn more thunder and rain as the day progresses. The squirrels and warblers don’t seem to mind, so maybe I shouldn’t, either.
nature
The Old Dog
There’s no way around it. Indigo is getting old.
Time steadily steals her enthusiasm for tag, thwarts her agile leaps to catch a ball. Deafness eases her thunder phobia, but also ruins her nightly reunions with my husband. She no longer hears his approach, so misses his entrance. Failing eyesight slows her pace, and a few terrible crashes have turned her tentative in the dark.
Her age hurts. I ache when she stumbles on the steps or staggers stiffly through what was once an exuberant dance of greeting. I’m doubly wounded when she snaps in frustration, compensating for growing weakness with the only defense left to her.
It’s a dreadful miracle, this loving of dogs. Their lives are so short compared to ours, traversing so many different paths to inevitable loss. Even so, I’m not sorry to have loved this dog, to love her yet, despite her spectacular array of bad habits and neuroses. She’s a deeply flawed beast, but aren’t we all?
From the “Lost” Section of the Lost and Founds
From the “Lost” Section
Of the Lost and Founds
Missing for the past few years
But seen occasionally
Behind rising western thunderclouds
Or under a theater seat
Once hanging from the second chord
Of Clair d’Lune
Several times, reports will show
It was spotted in the empty spaces
Of Ursa Major
And it caused an accident
On a dirt lane in Kentucky
When it flew out of a yellow oak leaf
You’ll know it by touch
Like warm mud between your toes
And its smell of crayon
Confirmation will come
Days later
When you find yourself humming
Quick medleys of childhood song
And reciting nonsense rhyme
Offering a reward for its recovery:
That you shall keep it
If first you contact me
With news that it survives
That it wasn’t blown up
Or mortally wounded by gunfire
Or trapped forever by a politician
Hammered into a campaign speech
But isn’t it true
That all things lost
Must be found
What goes up
Must come down
As you are searching
Keep in mind
It will be in the last place you look
And where you least expect it
Published in The Journal of Liberal Arts and Education Winter 2010
Cicadas
Summer seems within reach, so I can’t resist a selection from the summer archives.
Cicadas
Their last earthbound form clings
hollow gargoyle relic of claw and eye
split with surgical precision to release
the winged adult.
If I held one of these amber
husks to my ear, would a dusty
song of waning summer pulse
like the tide in a scrolled shell?
Changing Weather
The ladybug doesn’t lie. It’s “unseasonably warm” today, but not for long. The approaching cold front’s humid gusts have filled the yard with hyacinth perfume, and an electric sense of unease.
On a normal day, I might see two or three seagulls soar over my yard. Today I see dozens. They seem to be fleeing inland.
An angry chorus of crows, as they drive away a hawk, echoes the air’s tingle and buzz.
The sky changes from moment to moment, from frame to frame. It’s unsettling. Perhaps I’ll join the dog as she paces and frets along the leading edge our first spring storm.
Rae Spencer 