Monday, February 04, 2013
Old Woman's Legs and Dangerous Grins
Each morning we play tug-o-war,
backyard long throws and shorter ones at the Border Collie speedway.
She finds her place at my side, at the ready,
her big brown eyes locked on mine, the ancient lore of wolf theology, the wild ever present,
always leading and trailing edges in flight and landings.
She holds on to the worn squirrel toy, bares down with her big incisors,
settles her weight in proportion to the force she will need to best me at our everyday ritual.
She's gentle and determined like her life depends on winning and I don't let on that I know or let her win too easily, her needing to prove her place in our family as mother center, as the hub from which we all turn on this life's journey.
I give her the time to take all my time,
to root me there,
to fend off Sky who comes and goes on rocket-ship toes,
his Border Collie pursuits of circles unending but specific - only the pink one will do,
he prepared to run forever plus one more,
frothy maul wet in waiting
and there we are
the three of us
lost in the eternity of seconds.
She always wins
but not right off
not letting on that I know she has to win,
we need her to win as much as she does,
to keep on winning,
and eventually on the last tug of the last war,
once more and
she pulls away the winner,
eyes beaming, words praising, "you are strong, you are tippy"
I say, soft and resolute.
She smiles, gulping crisp morning air,
savoring it, our wolf mother center
standing tall on old woman's legs with dangerous grins
for tomorrow.
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