At the Lake Edge
The water is down
it rained the other day, so much
and then it was done
still the lake edges are dry
tiny bits of long dead leaves forming a layer
in the mud and drying sandbars
showing throughout the swamp where
beavers work at their industry felling trees and
dragging them down to the shore
to build a house that needs water but now sits
just as dry, near the spires in the lake
trees from some long ago flooding
that have not yet given up their standing
my hound sniffs and bays
what is truly a warbling trill
high-pitched, echoing off the hills
her ghostly face with black mask vibrant
she tells me things that dogs know
she knows they were here
and here, and here, can you see it, too?
Tail swishing, into the water is where her nose runs
and she follows
trying to catch the scent up to the point
It washes away

Frost at the Top of the Hill

the blades of grass and twining plants and wildflowers

have become lacework in the frost of the night

lying down across the earth in lines and flourishes

twisting this way and that around each other

and flattened to the land in white

at their edges and along their lines

waiting to embellish Spring