Prose Poem: Dog Walk

The sun coming out for the third March day in a row prompts me to leash the dog and head out. When choosing a direction down the sidewalk, there is much to consider: the sides of the road that benefit most from the warm sunlight have dry sidewalks, but they are framed on two sides by the soft, exposed lawn sections. The shaded walkways, on the other hand, have the occasional pot-hole puddle and random bootprints embedded in ice to contend with. Thinking first of traction we elect to go down the dry path, a decision the dog clearly approves of as she proceeds to run through the slowly thawing slop. Who can blame her? The spring time gallop through grass, partially decomposing leaves and branches helps her, and me, to shake loose some of the dolor and dust after seemingly many months indoors. Returning home I am reminded that the true harbinger of spring is not the first bird, but rather the first-dirty-muddy-dog-with-chestnuts-clinging-to-her-bib of spring.

Stay Poetic!