The Wild Wood
Mid-winter darkness is already falling as I trek through a foot of new snow,
searching for my dog, Lumi. Venturing off-trail through the woods, I hold out
my lantern, the only source of light this moonless night. The park ranger says,
“Coyotes probably got her.” I’d rather imagine that she has entered an enchanted
kingdom where a rabbit, seeing that she is lost, snuggles her in its burrow
or that she has found shelter in the bole of a tree.
hobo spider
i too
spin my web
This morning, a call from a hiker who spotted a dog matching Lumi’s missing dog
picture. I drive to the edge of the park, miles from where I lost her three days ago. Atop a steep hill that arches down to the river, I call her, long and loud, the way
my mother would sing my name when the street lights came on. A form takes shape
at the bottom of the hill―a snow swirl or my small, white dog? Rib-thin, mud-slushed,
exhausted, she comes limping toward me. I scoop her up, cradle her under my jacket
and together we bow to the benevolent mysteries that move through the forest.
second bloom
frost flowers
glaze the field
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