I thought it was a crumpled leaf,
Grey and still
Resting under the patio table,
Waiting for the next breath of wind
To carry it on its way.
But then the dog barked,
And her hind legs pawed at the ground
As if she was preparing for a chase,
(Which, I suppose, she was)
And her black nose was all a-quiver,
As she strained against the verbal leash called “Stay.”
A closer look revealed
That my ‘leaf’ was breathing,
And had glistening eyes.
Marianne Moore said, “Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.”
I wonder if it works in reverse.
(Translation: This guy was hiding-in-plain-sight under my picnic table at about midnight last night/this morning.)