Frogs leap Esther Williams style
into the creek in front of us
one at a time making the dog
crazy. Their plop and skim
send her into a frenzy. Once
she fell in and panicked
though the water is only
a few inches deep. So like that,
desire. We find ourselves chasing
something and then there
we are, paws deep in the cold truth
of storms upstream. She’s
a bolter and once her collar
became unclipped to the outside line
in front of the house I saw it
and ran out to reattach it. All she did
was lift her head, wag her tail and
go back to sleep. Had she known she
would have run for hours, dodging traffic
barking through the neighborhood
and having the time of her life
while I fretted for her safety
sitting on the front step.
A friend joked when I told him,
We never know how free we actually are.
What’s it like to be dead, Steven? To be free
of the leash and collar? Listening to the water
on rocks, a lone plane flying overhead, the dog
panting, and the leaves and the trees
and the rot and the September.