Winter Dogs

April 22 2017

A line of cedars

facing north.

Where, in a nascent spring

at the foot of the trees

a bank of snow persists.

A remnant of winter,

radiating cold

as I approach.

And like ticking-off a calendar

it tracks the sun's ascent,

edge receding

as the shadow steadily shrinks.

The succession of seasons

in a strip of shade

that will thin, day-by-day;

until the very first of summer,

when it reverses abruptly 

and the countdown to winter begins.

A pool of melt

where the dogs sluggishly step,

pink tongues

lapping glacial liquid

with slow deliberate flicks.

Eyes staring

as if mesmerized by drink

in this unaccustomed heat,

never questioning

the presence of water

the changing of season

the unfamiliar warmth.

The soiled snow

where the dogs contentedly sprawl

is concentrated by thaw,

has lost its pristine whiteness.

Gone, soon enough,

when the dogs will seek out the same sliver of shade

in the lee of the cedars

in a feverish spring;

and I can only wonder

if they know summer is coming

remember the season that was.

Sleeping dogs, in their winter coats

lying in the shade,

tongues lolling, sides heaving

eyes quivering beneath their lids.

Emitting high-pitched yelps

as they dream of beds of snow.

My kitchen window faces roughly southeast. On the far side of the driveway, a line of cedars stand like sentinels, in a gently curving arc. So I look out on the side protected from sun, where a bank of snow persists: a combination of the shade, and the accumulation from a winter of snow-blowing.

Toward my vantage point, there is a depression where the melt pools. The dogs, sensibly enough, sprawl full-length in the snow in the unaccustomed heat, and saunter up to the water as if it had always been there, and was naturally intended for them. They're Labradors – the quintessential Canadian dog! -- and do wonderfully in the coldest winter. The change of season is hard on them, and summer a trial without someplace to swim and reliable shade.

So I've ended up writing both a weather/seasonal poem and a dog poem all at once: two tropes I assiduously try to avoid, since I think I've already done both to death. But sometimes a poem comes, and my job becomes one of simply taking dictation. I needed to write; and this is what came to me, looking out my kitchen window on an unseasonably temperate day in a late spring that has whipsawed between warm and cold.