AND I THINK ABOUT ALL THAT I HAVE EATEN

by Virginia McIntyre

Nutmeg the puppy romps through

the forest tail kited high, ears flapping

like oversized mittens on a small child

in the abundance of spring with tissuey

green leaves on trees, wildflowers of purple

thistle, prickly poppy, Indian paint brush.

                        The cicadas counting time.

Black fringed lips reveal teeth

finely honed on found bones

of deer, elk and the occasional shoe.

Up from the brush a towhee takes flight

half-rising, falling, feigning a broken wing

as puppy and bird bound

by the chase, weave a numinous gauze

of earth and sky as they pass out of sight.

The puppy returns without bird

her tongue a dripping pink petal

her eyes rimmed with miniscule insects

feeding, her nose dusted with forest

bits. She swerves into the nest.

A blind slick hatchling opens its soft beak

in soundless protest as it slips down her throat.