Time in Motionless

A week off:

time is moving slowly

through the suddenly thick air,

summer in spring.

Our old dog

creeps, so very slowly,

through an atmosphere thick with

concentration.

I don't have anywhere to rush today

but my inner clock is spinning, spinning,

dial a blur behind swiftly sweeping hands.

I should have wound up the old dog

before stepping out so that he would - burst

out of the starting gate of our back door but

a week off:

Shouldn't I be able

to savor his motionless

zen-like step/pause?

But, there is that sudden, wrenching,

harsh cry from a fledgling hawk,

screaming, hysterically hungry for food.

The dog takes a slothful step.

And, the neighbors across the water, too-narrow-to-be-a-cove,

have cranked up their radio rock-and-roll, old enough

that I'm embarrassed to admit that I recognize the songs.

The dog leans to a new spot.

And, the black flies hatched early, blood-hungry and confused,

to feed April's May wood frogs prematurely trilling and

filling this spring/summer air with alien arpeggios.

The dog ticks down to a stop.

I pick up the old dog, his inner clock now pounding,

and whisper comforting words he can no longer hear.

Dog-time is just too slow for

a week off.