In the Spring Hills

My boxer with brindle coat and I
go out to trail spring. Unlike the dog
at the heels of young Tobias, mine

runs the hills ahead of me, and why
not when there is no angel to bog
down our climb. We enter the dayshine,

I whistle what birdnotes I capture,
oriole, martin, cardinal, thrush,
and my dog picks up his unfooled ears.

Growing impatient at my rapture
over a flaming violet’s plush
feel like a sudden body, he veers

me from my loitering when he barks
at a treetop where no squirrel dwells;
and I go to view his pretending.

Both pretenders, we lose our footmarks
on these everlasting hills,
and I ease into fleshweary spring.