Poem for Thursday

Retriever
By Donald Hall

Two days after Jane died
I walked with our dog Gus
on New Canada Road
under birchy green
April shadows, talking
urgently, trying
to make him understand.
A quick mink scooted past
into fern, and Gus
disappeared in pursuit.
The damp air grew chill
as I whistled and called
until twilight. I thought
he tried to follow her
into the dark. After an hour
I gave up and walked home
to find him on the porch,
alert, pleased to see me,
curious over my absence.
But Gus hadn't found her
deep in the woods; he hadn't
brought her back
as a branch in his teeth.

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Spent the middle of the afternoon at the doctor's office after twice blowing my nose and ending up on the floor because the room was spinning for five minutes. Had to call and make him come home and drive me. Doctor said my ears don't look infected but there's a lot of fluid in them and my sinuses are a mess and I need a much better decongestant than the over the counter stuff I've been using. Came home, had very quiet afternoon, wrote an obit of the guy who got credit for The Wrath of Khan screenplay even though the director apparently wrote the script they actually used, tried to get through an article on Trek gaming but couldn't string two thoughts together. Finally gave up.


As promised yesterday, a frog at Brookside Gardens.


And a goose swimming in the lake, and a turtle below the surface.


And bees enjoying flowers.


Brookside has several honeybee hives.


And one more butterfly.

Yeah, so got precisely nothing else done today that I was supposed to. Comments, posts and stuff? Tomorrow. Think I have lunch plans but can't figure that out now either. Night!