By Alicia Ostriker
As if there could be a world
Of absolute innocence
In which we forget ourselves
The owners throw sticks
And half-bald tennis balls
Toward the surf
And the happy dogs leap after them
As if catapulted—
Black dogs, tan dogs,
Tubes of glorious muscle—
Pursuing pleasure
More than obedience
They race, skid to a halt in the wet sand,
Sometimes they'll plunge straight into
The foaming breakers
Like diving birds, letting the green turbulence
Toss them, until they snap and sink
Teeth into floating wood
Then bound back to their owners
Shining wet, with passionate speed
For nothing,
For absolutely nothing but joy.
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Tuesday was another gorgeous day, sunny and not too hot. I did a bunch of chores in the morning, had hummus and pita for lunch, then we walked to the park and out on the dock, where we found yet another family of geese and goslings along with at least two of the ducks with ducklings. I love the lake this time of year especially! My Voyager group watched "The Haunting of Deck Twelve" -- which, while not good, isn't even close to the worst episode of the sixth season.
Our evening viewing has been two movies: the excellent American Fiction, which has superlative performances, a script perfectly balanced between humor and pathos, and really creative, self-aware filmmaking, and the pretty-bad-yet-not-as-bad-as-its-reviews Madame Web, which has mediocre performances, a ridiculous script, and too much pandering to the male gaze despite a story focusing on four female characters, but I enjoyed it anyway. Mother's Day dogs:
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