Mornings for Wild Dogs  

Rushing Pittman

I.

The morning is early, my companions fell asleep. Dogs run, long and quiet, in moonlight. I see my body as a heavy thing just earthed from a crevice. I want to pant like those dogs pant. Under the deck a bicycle rusts; I can’t make anything of it. The day will be hard. My companions will stop calling. I am a certain kind of dark just fallen on.

II.

When the alarm goes off, my body goes right on pulling all this flesh like slack netting. Distracted, I sway by the door prodigal coyote circling before rest. I turn myself into the laundry, busy myself and it’s getting late, all day; the degrees dropping into unreasonable depths, trying on their winter-air and hell-smirk. I’m chattering away under judicial trees. I might as well play with sticks. I want those stones, that ambiguous currency, whatever bought me that childhood thwackabandon boldness.

III.

I walk to the reservoir to hear the yowling choir, and finally, let down my body. I locate fear in my chest; I’ve see it before, it’s frail spine. I own a hundred. I feed them the nights of winter and now they’re mortally ill. I hope they die soon. Then at last, the dogs could claim me.

IV.

The first November morning; the air is warm. I’m counting solstices. It’s a quiet hour. I’m reaching past the zenith for a duller grey. One that doesn’t talk so much. I’m trying to be good-hearted. It seems like the right thing to do. I recline in my chair when my companions recline in their chairs. I’m watching faces but I don’t trust faces. I’m running wide loops around the dogs. I want to bring them in.