THREE HIKERS AND A DOG
A flash of orange bounds across our snowshoes.
Checker, the black and white Australian shepherd,
Wearing his lustrous “Hunters, don’t shoot me!” coat,
Checks up on us as we crunch along White Lake’s shore.
We watch him tree a saucy squirrel not at all
Fazed by his leaps and sharp impatient barks.
Our eyes are drawn to jagged cavities drilled
In the trunks of pines by woodpeckers after bugs.
We hear a raven’s hoarse foreboding croak
And note the jumbled prints of skittering voles.
Here where the track accesses the shore we take
A shortcut over the lake. Checker says “Hey!”
To an angler who’s driven his truck and fish shack
Onto the ice but reports, “No dice!” for a catch.
Halfway around we reach the beeches. Our poles
Break free of entangling brush whose name we can’t
Recall. We learn the dog has a checkered past:
Rejected by his siblings, he was the outcast,
The runt about to be dispatched, but love
Has prevailed. He’s now a lively obedient rover.
Nearing our cars we are brought to a halt. A mountain
Bike with snow tires stops our forward momentum.
We understand Checker’s anxious barks. We feel
These forest paths were meant to be trodden by feet.
Out of the west a wall of darkness dispatches
The sun and a wintry wind assaults our backs.
We are just in time to retreat to Rosie’s for lunch,
Safe from the blast of a fast moving polar vortex.
Checker curls up for a nap in the back of the van.
It’s time for next week’s outing to be planned.
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