Mostly Somewhere Else - Feb 8 2026

 

Mostly Somewhere Else

Feb 8 2026

On our usual walk

the dogs are out front

scouting with their noses

and darting off into the woods,

excited by smells

far too subtle

for my crude receptors. 

While I trail behind,

trudging along

lost in thought

focused on the path.

Which I regret;

my inability to be present,

my monkey mind

swinging from tree to tree

and chattering incessantly,

distracted by some ripe fruit

or a glimpse of a rival.

It wallows and worries,

whipsawed

between a conflicted past 

and anxious future,

while the succession of “nows” recede

in an unremembered blur.

I suppose this is one difference 

between a visual creature like me

and my olfactory dogs —

I’ve become jaded

by the same familiar sights,

while their world

is repeatedly renewed.

We know the route by heart;

the dogs

occasionally looking back

just to be sure,

and me on autopilot

looking down at my feet

on the uneven path.

Since our last outing

a little fresh snow has fallen,

softening the ground

and smudging our prints.

But they persist;

the dogs’

criss-crossing like chicken scratch,

and mine

wandering a bit

but still purposeful.

And although now not so sharp

they're undoubtedly mine,

their unique tread

exact size

and matching gait

as forensically accurate

as my own DNA.

Which strikes me as an apt metaphor

for how the sands of time soften the past,

remembered

but instead of photographic

more impressionist art.

Just as all of history 

is essentially revisionist,

depending less on any actual truth

than on where you stand

and what you bring to it.

My old prints are also a rebuke,

reminding me how easily

I fall into ruts,

taking the path of least resistance

choosing the safest route.

How, like ploughing the same old furrow

I could step into them, stride-for-stride

and feel perfectly natural;

following myself

in a closed circle

that simply takes us back 

to where we began.

Retracing the usual walk

my enviable dogs 

find endlessly exciting.

While I will never be so mindful;

too lost in thought

and mostly somewhere else.