Little wiener dog doing his best show horse,
jumping one, two, three stumps in a row;
his boy is too busy scrolling to notice, but I smile
all the way up the hill. Bitter cold
yet this curious stand of trees with green leaves
—not magnolia, not holly. A man’s walking boot
tied to a no trespassing sign, a brown kestrel
high on a branch spreading her wings,
the shock of cloud-color underneath.
I think of the conversation last night, four women
in the kitchen eating popcorn and olives,
how quick I was to roll my eyes, say who has time
—as if love was a second job, as if joy could wait,
as if my heart was the kid on the phone
and not the little dog.