Day 68: Territory

There is a particular spot on the east bank of the pond.
When we reach it we stop, stand, consider
The neighboring field, over the fence,
Butting up to the timber.
My dog is especially solemn.
It’s a serious business, this.
Smells are tendrils on the wind, and he
Brings his nose up to meet them,
Parsing with a long neck and square chest.
I would try it too, if I were built that way,
But as it is, I’m fine not knowing
What creatures walk and eat and die there,
Who haunts the trees and hides among the grasses.

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