Blonde-One stops
at path-side stones
to sniff the local news.
She takes her time.
Her vinegar attitude
toward strangers
keeps them at a respectful distance.
We meet only two.
She stops to chew
a thorn out of her paw
instead of limping
to keep pace with me.
Blonde-One accompanies me
on the dry trail above Taos:
south of the Reservation,
north of the road to Angel Fire.
The trail covers a six mile loop.
In spite of the fact she has aged
she makes the round trip
because it is What we do.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
postscript
Today marks the first day of year three in my goal to post one poem per day for three full years. So two years are completed. For those of you who have followed me on this journey, thank you.
Yes. Blonde-One was the name of one of my dogs. She was a rescue that was matched up with the black furred dog I already had. His name was Shadow, more because he shadowed my movements as a puppy than his black fur. I planned to keep Blonde-One nameless for a week to ten days to get an idea of her personality, but she quickly understood the descriptor I used when we met other people meant her. So Blonde-One stuck because she answered to it.
Umflop 