A poem for Wednesday

I just walked home. Midway, I sat on a bench to Instagram something and a dog came over to say hello. His name was Bob and he's just moved here from England. I wondered how differently the world smells to him here. Even I can smell the difference between Dublin and Toronto; there's a wet-stone mustiness to Dublin. All drenched moss and heather, salty rope, peat and grass. Bob probably thinks he's hit the squirrel bonanza here. Wait until he meets his first skunk.

It's still easy for me to feel outside of all this too. I sat in a meeting this morning and everybody talked about curling. Several minutes of curling talk. And I just sat there and thought, I really live in Canada now. It never goes away -- the little things that trigger feelings of novelty and giddiness. Bob and I aren't that different, I guess. This is another one by Mary Oliver.

The Dog Has Run Off Again
and I should start shouting his name
and clapping my hands,
but it has been raining all night
and the narrow creek has risen
is a tawny turbulence is rushing along
over the mossy stones
is surging forward
with a sweet loopy music
and therefore I don’t want to entangle it
with my own voice
calling summoning
my little dog to hurry back
look the sunlight and the shadows are chasing each other
listen how the wind swirls and leaps and dives up and down
who am I to summon his hard and happy body
his four white feet that love to wheel and pedal
through the dark leaves
to come back to walk by my side, obedient.
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