STICK

The astronomers call for marvels,
a cosmic drizzle in the pre-dawn sky.

But this dog won't be energized
by prediction, and he won't move

to fetch a fresh May stick
or even deem a healthy mole-rout

worthwhile today.
A spring gland pumps in the fields,

and the season slides on
beyond surface elegy. Maybe it's a timely

truth that the young part of this dog
has passed.

Then his indifference snags and
spikes with adrenaline.

He spots the wild ones glance slowly up
at him, then breathe and bound away:

deer shimmer through the redbud,
the dog, a fastball of delight.

Something like a flying stick's at work here,
an occasion that makes a body feel whole

as it clicks into forward.
Musk and cunning white scuds

dip deeper into the woods,
one creature held

to the shadowy prospect of the next.

First published in Five Points