A clumsy, loose
andante—
trundling forth,
first to sooth—
stiffness;
Lucy and me—eventually smoothing
out and
walking more
mildly, despite
the sliver
of cold white sun—to become little
more—than a pair
of keen and
clement noses, honed—
eventually—
to mere aspects
of a single-
pointed thing—ferreting
only for that
dirt-simple pleasure—
some delicate bit
of earthy tenderness—
the perfect little spot—
so much the harder
to sniff-
out in iron weather.
