Cold Case
Mar 3 2010


Blood on the snow
a tuft of fur.
In the cold
the stains are still bright red,
and the edges have that softly blotted blur
of water-colour, on paper.

The Labrador pup charges off-trail
almost submerged,
her nose angling-up like a snorkel,
plush brown back
rippling along the surface,
blunt body
powering through.

Her snout is magnificent, noble,
burrowing into deep white powder.
She snorts and sniffs, almost chewing the air
— a connoisseur of scent.
Then stops, transfixed,
darting off on invisible trails.
She investigates the area like a crime scene,
reconstructing events with forensic precision —
the olfactory clues,
tell-tale molecules
left behind.

To which I am totally blind.
While she occupies a 5th dimension
beyond space and time,
inaccessible to my weakened senses
my inattention
my pre-occupation with human cares,
always thinking
what comes next.

She emerges triumphant
— a severed head
congealed blood
fur matted, wet.
The death of a rabbit.
And a fugitive hawk
in flight, at large,
the prime suspect excused from trial —
the defence of necessity,
exigencies
of survival.

The DNA now safely banked
in this dog’s exquisite brain —
processed, protected
cross-referenced.
Cold case.
Hard evidence.