Birddog

You came to my back door, screened to keep out the bugs. You have a cardinal in your Mouth and I yelled at you: you slunk away, all I felt was pity and rage: and I can’t remember why I was so 

angry. 

Now it’s my turn: 

I show up at your front door, 

stick my nose through the cat flap 

that I’m too big to fit through. 

It’s your turn to yell 

and say 

Why would you give me this? 

The present is me. I wanted to make you proud. 

We’re walking together, hand in hand and the sidewalk is interrupted by a tree caged, roots cut. 

Is it happy? 

We let go, walk around 

and rejoin after we leave the tree behind. I am changed: you are not. 

Are we the same? Or are we different? 

We have not known each other for years: you chose your path, I chose mine; 

you hunting cardinals, me poking 

my nose through the cat flap. 

You wait to be invited, I 

try to get in: doesn’t matter what they think, I am here, and you are not. 

Maybe we sit down for coffee, we 

kiss each other on the nose: miss you, love you. Maybe we walk by each other on the street and we don’t even recognize the other. 

All I remember is sitting on the porch, sticking my nose through your door, and the hurt in your voice when you saw me. All you remember are the feathers in your mouth and the anger in my voice when I saw you. 

Are we strangers? Are we lovers? Or we friends? Are we all of them, together? 

I think we are two dogs: you’re a shepherd, I’m a malamute 

and our paws are caked in snow and 

our mouths are full of feathers.