← v10n1, Spring 2011
Poetry · Volume 10, Number 1

Early Bird Dog Training

July day walking Finn number two, headstrong

pup who makes my arm twitch with fatigue, the pronged

stick I tap for stress hot incentive to him.

Ten months now, he hears every bird the same.

His heart boils, and soon his tongue lolls sidewise.

I don’t know his limits, so leash his desire’s

worst, though he bucks and huffs and whines. Heel, heel,

I bark, acolytes metering a suburb’s field

until he’s caught by a goldfinch. Is this it?—wild

canary, butterfly yellow, that flits, scolds,

seaming the beaten path with beauty’s signal.

How bold, notes from a hidden branch that trembles!

Yet I can’t find the nesting tree, nor can dog,

who, unmoved by form, points not song but log.