The rumble rose slowly, across a big lung
to a call, then a cry, then a squeal,
as city siren proclaimed the midday.
We postured our energy for the new meridian.
Eagerness was the hardest product to manufacture
in that industry. In a few hours, a swift
took flight at dusk. Winter season, silver
moon, and a rumble rose slowly in winnow
and throatpipe on the Doberman two houses
North. In timing and pitch, it was clear
that he called in response to that whistle
at noon, just ten hours before. "Slow,
slow reflexes," I thought. He was waking
to new snow, surprised in the dance
and the flight of brown bunnies by moon
wherever he turned. "Bunny at corner
of alley and brick pile!" called Setter
from over the block. And Doberman thought
little of it, too far. He rolled
in a cold yard, and growled for a while
about Schopenhauer, then called back again
to the siren from noon. No response.
Meanwhile, two other rabbits debated
the upshot of crocus come up under pine
and Doberman barked his opinion on gardening
until these scatted as well. Cold and Wind
were debating the team from New Blossom
that wins the debate every school year
at this time. And Doberman talked to his Soul
and to Setter, to gods of striations in shivers
of air current, he hooted his praise
for lavender caught in an abrupt breeze
surprising himself with so much monologue
that he was still wide awake to engage
next noon's whistle. Hump day. We looked
for the coming of second shift, stretched
for a break. The workday's numbness felt deep,
and we wished the dogs had not wrecked our sleep.
