Walking With Him
Autumn, and the smolder
of inert sap fills every nose,
ignites flameless fires.
He buries his nose
in a pile of russet and gold-flecked leaf,
a squirrel scolds him from a high branch
but he’s a sniff-happy hound
and does not care.
The woods are falling
under a death-cheating spell,
Spring will awaken them
with a whelping lick.
He, on the other hand,
will fall sick and die.
The path veers this way and that,
man and dog
crisscrossing a landscape
until as scant as autumnal smoke
they drift homeward.
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