Alone with Dogs

To ken what is inexpressible, ineffable, is to know the shape of winter passing, of retreating or swelling waters, of lessening moonlight as it crosses the lake. At first, it is like a gossipy wind in the pines – who can hear it? Who wants to know? Eventually it rests, but does not settle, as stillness at the bottom of a deep lake or the expanse beyond stars. The moment you believe you have either grasped it or have been gifted it, you no longer know a damn thing.

A poet from Detroit wrote about starving dogs eating snow and I can never come back from that. A poet from New England used to walk forests and trails with dogs but now is not able to live with dogs. A woman I know is not a poet but lives alone with dogs in the woods. A train runs along the back side of her acreage, and aside from its clockwork moaning, only the sounds of trumpeter swans and Carolina wrens keep her company. In last night's dream I was a poet who lived in the woods and rescued dogs.

Alone with dogs. Can you understand the meaning of this? Does anyone hear the meaning of this?

For breakfast, cold lentils over rice, hot tea. For something without a shape, the weather sure does make an impact. Rain stipples against sills in the darkness and in my mind, I travel unmapped roads towards a place which dreams of me. A stream, woods, and wild things. Alone with dogs.

There are rumors of a truce with this life. But I no longer know a damn thing.