Frost shimmers on the lawns
and burrs cling to the paws of my dog
who roots in bushes, wallows in scent
under redwoods along Railroad Avenue
at dawn. My breath steams

like exhaust in the air, as we slow-walk
to the music of birds. The sun, that pink
hunchback, is bent on the horizon,
about to re-ignite as if night, like sin,
must be burned off in morning ablutions.

A logging truck careens toward us, the bed
stacked with shaggy trunks, the carcasses
of yesterday’s massacre, while living giants
bear solemn witness alongside the road.
My dog bolts, the truck skids, and for one

breathless moment, our world explodes
with the fulminant prospect of tragedy. But a
wheel is turned, the animal bounds to safety,
my heartbeat resumes and the vehicle glides
into the anonymity of another day.