The Day after the Tornado
Walking along the wheat fields
I was checking on the cows and the fences
when along the creek I heard a whimper
A mound of soft silky mud
moved
as the small dog underneath it
rose on his shaking legs
his ears drooped
from the weight of mud and his dismal luck
his back arched and shivered
his eyes locked on to mine
as if asking one of two questions --
Will you help me?
or
Will you hurt me?
I scooped him up in my arms
I phoned John once I climbed into the truck
Would you warm some milk on the stove
for the puppy I'm bringing home? The tornado
must have blown him across the Southwest.
At home the dog drank warm milk,
We washed him up and patched him up
and concluded he was a spaniel breed
of some sort, any sort, his ears lay back
this time in a sign of contentment
That was seven years ago and no telling how old he really is
the small dog I found along the creek the day after the tornado
his ears are now grey, and his muzzle is now grey, and his legs
don't shake anymore for all the running he does chasing
and capturing squirrels and birds -- just for the fun of it
and for all the swimming he does in the creek -- just for the fun of it
and for all the jumping into our arms when the winds pick up.
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