Stray Dogs in Fall

The small white mutt of my Unsure Self trails the masterless Dog of the Dying World, watching him lope the endless block of yards he knew before his birth‚ . . . I imitate his muffled bark & snuffling breath, as round & round we trot as one through rustling browns of the dying world. For it's come to me now that a dog sniffing round for the perfect smell,& a place to pee in the chilly breeze, is the Rudiment of Life. And, if so, the Poetry of Fall is the dog of myself, untied at last, from the Rope of the World dreaming he'll one day snuffle past those crackling heaps of burning leaves, becalmed by the scent of smoky light, Alone.