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the watch dog
The terrier barks. I look up from reading and fi nd
the afternoon is over. Voices -- some people going by, their
movements just detectable through the high hedge. They are
out for a walk on this fi rst spring-like evening of the year.
The terrier stays tensed -- ears forward, she keeps watching
on hind legs at the window. She barks again -- two sharp
hard barks, for good measure. The light is mild
on the new green already fl ecking the old, stubborn dark of
the oaks crowding together up the steep slope opposite,
mild on our apple tree divided by window squares, its thin
crossing twigs still bent from last year, still bare. The street
is quiet again along its length, moments are all we have.
geron the heron
A fragment
There, leaning alone,
A thin crooked dark shape inside the blaze
Of the low sun and the blaze-back of the sea:
Now the breeze freshens, lifting his scant crest. He
Is fi nishing this one more of certain days
He has made his own.