poetry and the pitbull

we were out for a walk to the small pond
at the back of our property,   back by the
convergence of fences,   wood to the right
and meadow to the left   —   just over west
cows milling about,   yawpless of a spring day,
and the dog at three every bit a puppy
cavorts down the path as though reincarnated
from a bronco who would not be broken
of dancing   .  .  .   after a short jaunt fetching
a stick,     he stops to dance a peculiar step
I’ve not seen before;     drawing closer, I
make out the coiled bulk of a large black snake
and yell the dog off.          tail wagging,   prideful,
he barks once more before prancing homeward.

david m pitchford
7 May 2012


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