Walking With Him

He smells wood smoke in the air. It is autumn, and the smolder of inert sap fills every nose, ignites flameless fires in shrinking roots. Now he buries that nose in a pile of russet and gold-flecked leaf, a squirrel scolds him from a high branch. He’s probably ransacking a winter store, but he’s a sniff-happy hound and he does not care. The woods are falling under a death-cheating spell, Spring will awaken them again with a whelping lick. He, on the other hand, will fall sick and die, this is a future walk I take with him, an autumnal wake.