Before I see the field, or even the light above it, every time
the dogs on the road, the two up the bank behind the fence and the one
on the ratty balcony—they're all there, overseers, guards
their voices like wet gravel, like a shout in a tunnel again, again, again,
maybe menacing, yes, they could be menacing, and so I have to
make myself into a shield to shield myself against them,
because when the dogs are barking and barking over my head
I can see their teeth, their muscled necks,
I can see how they are built for tearing things apart.

As am I.

And so it's like this: I go down the road to where it breaks open
into a field—and I'll tell you, the year rolls out
in one kind of scrappy beauty after another under the power lines,
there's so much light and I watch the grasses come up, and then wildflowers, vines,
all manner of thorns, and what did my fortune say on the teabag yesterday?
the difference between a weed and a flower is a judgment--
which we all have, wrapped up in being what we are. I'm trying
to keep it at bay, though now of course
the flowers have gone, even the grasses have become thin and gray
my mind rises and falls like the speckled cloud of gnats
over the ghosts and nests and fists of what's left
of Queen Anne's lace
little dots of thought bobbing, not quite alighting, just
touching down, then rising again

among all that spent grass, the stems so brittle
you can break them off as you walk, trying to work things out
snap snap snap, tiny increments,
was there a soul here? is there still? is there still time before the blue hours,
the owls becoming interlocking bells—

It took me a long time to understand
that the sounds those dogs made every time I passed might not
have to add up
to another story of aggression.

Why not imagine the barking
another kind of greeting?
The world, too lonely to always do otherwise.
I tried it.
When the dogs barked, I waved. I said
Hey there. Glad you still can see me.
And now when they're slow to show up, I don't creep by. I call out,
Hey guys. You're gonna miss your chance. Is everything okay?

And yesterday, those dogs: their tails were waving.
I don't think they do that when they want to kill.
Their tails waving, and one bent down
and picked up some clod of a thing in its mouth and tossed its head.
That could mean this is gonna be you, lady,
Or it could be play, play! I don't know
but from my safe distance, this side of the fence, on my way to the meadow,
I call back across the loneliness
we might share.