Walking the Dog

Kathleen Eason

We go out early, you and I,
when the day is just a thin bright promise
on the edge of the eastern sky,
and noisy birds seek breakfast
on the still-wet lawns.
Tethered together we quickly stride
across the deserted street,
to where the concrete ends and the trail begins.

Unleashed, you joyfully disregard the path,
coursing back and forth,
lowered black nose pulling you
from rabbit hole to ground-squirrel mound,
as you relish the aromatic memories
of every creature who passed this way before.
I keep my cadenced pace on the well-marked trail,
eyes fixed on the hazy horizon.
My mind is filled with lists of time and place
--chores to begin and finish
--the promises made that enclose my life.
Our paths diverge, converge, and merge,
until at last the loop's complete.
The hills have cast aside their chilly gray
and now lie golden
in the morning light.

Joined again, we leave the field behind,
and return home
--past the intermittent
flow of drowsy drivers yawning in the early light
--past the drying plundered lawns
--home to where the sun-streaked kitchen waits.
The day's adventure over, you lie content
within a striped envelope of warming sun.
Envious, I turn away,
and cross one item off my list.