The caw, caw, caw of a coven of crows
sprinkles the landscape in mock aggression.
Toby ahead on the path, trotting in Z’s,
nose bouncing to the ground, grinning his dog grin,
tongue extended, eyes as bright as a brown marble in sunlight.
What does he smell?
Rabbits, turkey droppings, deer tracks?
He lingers over a matted clump of weed, momentarily motionless,
then on, blazing the trail.
I sit down in the warmth of dead grass shorn close to the earth last fall,
the loamy scent familiar,
and upon the jetty of river bolder, the chugging of rapids
cast a spray of fresh fragrance, icy damp.
I breathe it in and am thankful.