But the Sleeping Dogs Slept

Jan 18 2019

Confused by the light

he sprinted ahead of us,

alarmed, but under control;

as if he could run all night

hardly tiring.

Before he clambered up

the high banks

and vanished into darkness,

leaving a few clumps of snow

runnelling down

the smoothly scoured surface.

Heading north

on a country road

on a frigid winter night.

When the frozen seat had softened

but frost still rimmed the glass.

The warm cocoon, the hum of tires

the heater's steady purr.

A Brahms concerto

coming over the air

from somewhere vaguely south,

before it lost to static

a little further on.

When an impression of motion

in the shifting greys

broke my trance-like calm,

a disturbance

in the cone of light

that cut the icy dark.

A deer? 
                 ...a fox?

                                  ...a large lost dog?

Until my perspective sharpened

and I was certain it was wolf.

Thinking of all the howls

in the lonely hours

when we wondered just how far.

And of its sure powerful stride;

urgent, but not panicked.

Because foxes dart, deer frantically stumble.

And dogs bark

like the overgrown puppies they are.

While the wolf's majestic bearing

left little doubt

who belonged to this land

and who commanded deference.

But the sleeping dogs slept,

their animal warmth

and steady humid breath.

Oblivious

to the feral scent of predators

and ever-present threats.

So up we drove

the winding road

between towering banks of snow.

Like a slender life-line

carved out of winter

by the massive yellow plow,

its acrid smoke, diesel racket

rattling steel blade.

While the lone wolf

bounded freely through the woods.

His keen vision

illuminating the dark,

his enormous paws

padding softly

as he vanished into night.

I was sad to read today of Mary Oliver's death. But as I read the various remembrances, I was reminded how much this beloved and admired poet's style is very similar to mine: often missing the presence of people; revelling in the natural world; descriptive, lyrical, epiphanic; somewhat deprecating of man's place in nature; and written in a direct and accessible style. And I found great encouragement in this, since I often think that my poetry is boring, repetitive, and not coloured enough by deep human emotion and circumstance. What, one more “nature poem”? Another overly descriptive piece, when all I can resort to for inspiration in my uneventful existence (ahh, the romantic life of the poet!) is looking out the window ...again?

So I felt it worthwhile to have a go at this one. After all. Risking “more of the same.” If for nothing more than the pleasure of writing. Not of having written, but of the writing itself. I think as prolific a poet as Mary Oliver would be with me on this, as well.