THIS HOUND
for Creek
Wherever scent blows, this hound goes.
Flop-eared mutt, three times snake bit,
bound by the black wet leather of his nose.
He trots the trail happily, lapping the green
hills over & back again. O! to be
this dog, pissing & crapping, drinking
in the trough of wind—coyote scat,
deer fur snagged on outcrop rock,
pine duff, the frag & slough
of opossum skin, the bear’s
bleached bones, musky underneath
of river stone—
this swoon of smells his canine art,
rotting offal the pleasure of his days.
Unlike me, he loves
this stinking world.
With all his wagging heart
he barks rough praise.
Why We’re Here
Our father squints through trifocals,
searches for the eye of a fishhook.
Yellow goat horns ripple in a blue tattoo
across the tendons of my brother’s forearm.
I catch myself humming a song
from my childhood religion.
We say we’re here
to fish backcountry streams.
A father. Two prodigal sons.
Sorting gear and drinking coffee
on the tailgate of a pickup.
Listening for gaps in the silence.
