Izzie Walking Me on a Cold December Day by John Dorroh

The visible breath from a dog’s throat
on a cold gray day announces travel plans,

bare branches above her head – I think
it’s the mulberry this time – low hanging

clouds, thick with snow, waiting for perfect
conditions, to begin the delicate cascade

down to earth, to cover her black back with
fine, delicate flakes, that tap her on the spine,

an undefined alphabet, forming words that
only dogs understand, their primitive sentences

dictating directions for her way back to the house.
She is not ready, sniffing every frozen mound,

a detective, an architect, designing plans for the
next outing, her brown eyes fixed to the ground.

©2018 John Dorroh


Follow John

Whether John Dorroh taught high school science is still up for grabs. However, he did manage to show up every morning for a few decades with a thermos of coffee and at least two lesson plans. His work has appeared in Dime Show Review, Tuck, Piker Press, Red Dirt Press, Indigent Press, Red Fez, Event Horizon, and several others. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant.


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