It could be anything
at a distance, a shape
or silhouette grazing
your memory, a word
kept to yourself
for safekeeping
now dim enough
to call instinct—
it needs no name.
Listen to the dogs
emulate symphonies
before daybreak,
stirred by the wild
curiosity that yet holds
them close to the house.
They have chosen
partnership, stayed awake
while you dreamed
poetry, wandered-off
on an adventure
you can’t quite remember,
edited so many times
it remains undone, loose
lines without ending.
It could be anything
to catch your eye
and hold it
at a distance,
if you’re looking,
if you listen.
drycrikjournal 
Not many of live on the edge of wilderness, yet wilderness is as close to us as our eye can see . . . Loved your poem!
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Glad you liked it, Peter, it was fun to put together!
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This is wonderful…so evocative. Thanks John >
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This one speaks to me. One of very few things I miss about California is creeping along the road there at the ranch scanning the horizon. You never knew what was going to be under the next tree or sipping from the next spring.
One thing we did right when we moved was switch to hound dogs. I live vicariously through them as long as they stay within earshot.
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I knew you got it, right after you became our neighbor, understood the sense of adventure, the ever-changing details of Greasy Creek, a world of its own. We trust you found what you wanted in Oklahoma, but your presence is missed. I’m imagining the images that run through a hounds head.
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It’s astounding how when I go back and reread your work that it touches me differently than the first read.
“edited so many times
it remains undone, loose
lines without ending.”
This time you have captured my futile attempts at writing. I could fill a book with my “undone, loose lines without ending.”
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