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Walking the Dog

Marta Ferguson

Not my favorite weather, but not
far off—misty, fortyish—just chill enough
to redden my cheeks, keep Daisy
in constant motion. We walked today,
lapping up the scenery with our four eyes,
hers more intent on other gods [sic] than mine,
taken with the houses I’d never explored,
just north of us, that somehow going north,
I’d never seen.

I’m after something here, more complicated
than the wonder of an hour’s brisk walk in the weathers.
My tendency to miss the obvious:
The mist on my face, the hood hung pleasantly
about my ears, her bright black nose,
her pounding heart.

Marta Ferguson

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