It could fool you, the clapboard houses
in their peaceful arrangement after snow.
How typically New England with the sky
grayed as though a fine scrim washes
the scene in drama. Though today
my daily walk is haloed with sadness
as just yesterday my dog leaned his body
against mine and today, it was different.
That end of life on his breath, so labored.
His body stiffened. The difficulty of moving,
so he stood on unsteady legs
and I could sense the confusion
and I knew that he knew he was closing
as the mist in the air outside
was surely casting a layer, obscuring detail,
nothing clearly discernable as though
a holding pattern when you know life
can no longer be rescued.
Returning home, after he is no more,
I stare into the stillness outside
surprised by a huge flock of robins
arriving on the corner maple.
It is February. The snow is deep,
the food source slim. I read that flying
in nomadic flocks protects from predators,
that life and death precipice.
But there is a beauty here, in their numbers,
their orange breasts a brushstroke of color
lighting up the hazy sky. And I am looking out
for something. How the unknown turns me toward
an omen, to feel safe passage in the leaving.
Right now, like the robins, he is still everywhere.
