my dog tells me
that she is dying –
subtly, as dogs do
that this is the first
of our many lasts
that we should
go slowly now
and savor this truth,
this pained heart,
with worthy tenderness
I owe her as much,
and everything else
at least once more
we take the first
of our last walks
between the light and
lengthening shadows
wheeling toward
the end of the year
good girl!
a neighbor stands in his yard
and bemoans roads – says
he prefers wilderness
and dogs, and rails now
against the HOA and their
six brains thinking as one
but after a few too many,
wields his weed whacker –
one-handed against any blade
rising higher than some
arbitrary regulation height
we watch from my dandelions –
the dogs, the yellow cedar, and I –
different minds entirely
© Sarah Whiteley
an early snow this year
icy and hard, it woke me –
hissing and insistent
through the crack in the sill
the dogs both dig deeper
into my side, settle once more,
and sigh – little heart-furnaces
© Sarah Whiteley
The weather this year has been hard on the dogs and little Angus especially is feeling his age lately. But it’s amazing what comfort a dog can bring into a life – and I am blessed to have both of them for as long as I may.
My newest chapbook Wandering Wonderful is now available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press. Pre-orders through March 22nd will have an opportunity to win a canvas print of the cover art. Click for details!
for the sixth time since November,
the heat’s gone out – the radiator sits silent
there is no weight of heavy snows here
to bear down upon roofs or wool-shod shoulders,
yet the dark leans in against the windows,
its own weight overwhelming the small hours
for once, Time in its grand arc is on our side –
as are the dogs exuding contentment,
as is the glass of whiskey on the pale marble
table by the deep-seated chair
either the radiator will rattle tomorrow,
or it will remain cool in dormancy –
but in the morning, I will seek the green tips
of emerging hyacinth – gift and promise both
© Sarah Whiteley
the last evening in May
and the dogs are still,
stretched beside the window
as still as the trees
whose wind momentarily
has no urge to prove itself
the light nearly gone,
still there is a lone
hummingbird in the plum
and two house finches
gazing outwards, sitting
squat in the window box
I smell rain tonight,
and the spice remaining
from tonight’s dinner
on the dogs’ last walk
this last evening in May,
we’ll see the Sound
and on the far side will be
mountains, which I know remain
snowy behind their clouds
© Sarah Whiteley
the small-birds have finally
found the window feeder
and the dogs are enthralled
with their sudden proximity
we are well, though feeling
the spring in our bones –
that gentle eruption debuts
a new brand of restlessness
the boards of the porch have been
too damp for comfortable reading,
and coffee for now is confined
beneath the mossy awning
but sweet and peppery
the season’s trees tease
the beginnings of green –
one promise kept, at least,
among so many hundreds dropped
these are days of small news,
buds of flowery hearsay – not much
here to report except the hummingbirds
are damp-winged and bright
among the new leaves of the maple
© Sarah Whiteley
I can’t forget that day the hummingbird
darted through the snow – you slept through it –
content with the dogs in a patch of morning sunlight,
which found and stroked the red-gold stubble on your cheeks
the way I wished that I might without breaking your sleep
snippets from the past few days
the snowdrops have been stepped on by some unwary foot – they are closer now to mud than to sky – but the crocus persists and the daffodils are showing their greening tips
I had to side-step several puddles of blood on the sidewalk outside the office one morning while the police tried to tape them off – a man stabbed apparently kept right on walking – I felt like I could relate
I wake most mornings at 2 AM with my heart thrumming like a sparrow trapped in a 50 gallon drum – and it is the strangest sensation to feel empty except for the beating of frantic wings – on lucky days, that goes away
Knock-Knock has learned a new vocalization that somewhat approximates a soft bark, not unlike what Freyja sounds like when she calls the crows – I am intrigued and pleased by this
Coyote has been extra amorous with his mate, and in another few months, I will hopefully have a new blue-eyed fledgling or two that he will let me photograph
I briefly met someone at the office whom I strongly suspect is a very shy, closeted smart-ass – this makes me want to invite him to coffee so that we can enjoy the comfort of being smart-asses in like company
three gin & tonics and eight pieces of sushi with raucous friends is better than hours of therapy; a peaceful hour spent painting is just as good
Freyja-dog, who finds treasure in green felt clown hats discarded on damp sidewalks and joy in the orphaning of bright socks and mittens, gladly bears the burden of my happiness.
On good days, she skips after the crows when they tease her and spins whirling dervish style in ecstatic circles at the feet of her chosen favorites. But on bad days, I bear her up and down the three flights of stairs and sleep on the floor to keep her company.
This is no burden while joy still resides in tail and eyes, infectious and whole. She deserves all this and more. Anything else I will tuck into the darkest corner beneath the bed so I will not have to speak it.
***
I’ve known for some time now that my girl has intervertebral disc disease. She’s coming out of her worst flare up to date and I’m three weeks into carrying her up and down the stairs and sleeping on the floor with her. Her condition is still very manageable with anti-inflammatories and rest, but my heart twinges each time this happens and my poor Freyja is laid up. But I can tell she’ll be back to her old self soon – is already getting frustrated with the forced inactivity. Another three weeks of caution and rest and we’ll be back to chasing the pigeons.
for once my crows
(my noisome watchers)
ignore the shrill complaints
of a wheeling gull
and crouch instead
on snow-tipped branches,
giving way to the whims
of a relentless wind
I’d invite them in
(my boot-blacked friends)
but they’d tease the dogs,
pluck my bright beads
from the lighted tree
and delightedly unwind
every blessed color
in the overflow of yarn
instead I stay ensconced
in dog-warmed blankets
and startlingly bright socks
and watch them accusingly
hunched in what I imagine
is a crowish glare
willing the chill of winter
through my windows
© Sarah Whiteley
The poor crows! It’s bright and beautiful outside at the moment, but it snowed overnight and there’s a very insistent wind out there with a decidedly arctic chill to it. I was swamped by all 5 of Coyote’s family this morning on my walk and I was sure to give them plenty of treats. I think Freyja was a little offended when the father across the street said “look at the birds!” to his little daughter instead of the usual “look at the doggie in the pretty sweater!”
Today is the perfect sort of day for hot chocolate and my largest knitting project on my lap. From where I sit, I can see the crows coming and going, stopping outside my window to see where the rest of their treats are.
ebbtide 