Traipsing
He walks toward me, old, shabby and crooked,
yet there’s a pliancy of new mown-hay in him.
A peppery hound follows.
Now and again the dog slows and flops,
its muddy eyes question marks.
He calls to it -
the dog struggles up from a knuckled stiffness,
a skewbald tail wags.
I capture them both in an intake of breath.
We have all been traipsing,
but these two are at ease with their path,
while I have yet to find one.
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