Yesterday I saw a dog at the tideline,
a young, black dog, how he kept falling headlong into the water,
chomping and plowing through, then instantly scared, retreated,
trotted along the edge of the beach—stopped—crept—nosed
the fringe of a wave, gingerly sniffing the depths
and prodding with his paw, butting heads, teasing the sea
as if provoking a huge old animal.
Better take him on a leash.
No need: his leash is the sea.
Yesterday I saw a dog at the tideline.
He was trying to bite through the water’s silver rope
then turned toward the dune-dump, raced to the parking lot,
already catching up to the paper cup on the pier,
already fishing from the sand some kind of dark object—
and then the sea yanked him back
and in a flash the dog was at the waves again
straining against his collar of metal drops.