My Dog Hates Water

We should have asked before trespassing,

but something about the golden light

slanting through the pillars of trees

entranced us, emboldening us

to scramble down the embankment.

Further in we discovered a molten stream

burbling along a rocky bed. We stood silent,

quivering. The perfect stillness of the dog

said that she was thinking, perhaps, about

the first time she met the water’s edge --

the jolt of cold wet, a live wire on her paws.

We watch the twirling progress

of a copper leaf, drifting,

until at the last possible moment

she jumps, splashing into the stream

and with the graceful snap of her kind

catches the leaf. Looks back at me.

Dripping. Proud.

Who told you

that I hate water?