the dog will stop me at a place in the woods where
the play of sunlight through the lattice of branches
married with the lick of the wind,
the particular green of the moss on the bough,
its angle against the blue of the sky,
the high trill and low woof of hidden birds,
the flit and scurry of the tree creeper,
the slap of the pigeon’s wing,
the bounce of the robin on the dirt floor
and a thousand other details of the moment
push me through a door
between Nature’s multitude and
the “I” to which I cling
rendering me present
in a way
to which I am unaccustomed.
It is hard to hang on to your head beyond the door.
Hard to hold that degree of concentration.
So, the moment passes,
the door closes
and the dog is chasing rabbits.