Two Minds One Leash
a beagle named Bilbo, a leash,
and a trail called Windy Run.
We ran past maples,
shagbark hickories, the mighty oaks.
We stopped to salute the fallen.
We pooped together
in last autumn’s leaves,
careful to scan the horizon
for signs of threats,
then hurriedly covered our stool
to guard our trail.
We leaped over rivers,
crossed the bouncy bridge,
and as the light began to fade,
we pushed for home in an old Corolla,
low to the ground,
tails pointed, two minds connected
by one leash,
one on the trail of the fox and the rabbit,
one on the trail
of Beef Bourguignon and Cote du Rhone.
We watched the Walking Dead,
and then curled up tight in our beds,
little pools of warmth that rippled
with dreams, existential notes
rolling through our bodies,
the Potomac reciting lines
from a pre-recorded poem
written before time was born:
words only the trout understand,
and they are far away by now.