We have all become our dogs it seems, Stirring at first light To these Groundhog Day mornings, All is the same and all is different So eager for that first walk The chance of possibility, We sniff the fecund smells Of earth, lichen Moss, We give tree-distance to the squirrel And air rights to the hawk, Then to the car, A ride! I call shotgun, The window cracked open Just the enough to Moisten our mature noses, Take in a piece of wind, And the still fallow fields, And then we return home, There it is: Th … (read more)
