They say the spitz
type, a sheepdog, a buhund
maybe Shetland, some mix
I think of corgi
tearing at the world with
tiny teeth. But not here
where, like the horses—
not ponies, never say
ponies—
they see you and smile,
a deep icy belief inside
like Viking stone,
or imagine a shelter of wood
on a barren plain
between bald peaks.
These are the creatures
the Bishop first met
settling the clans,
escaping the blood
of Europe, letting it be,
farmer and hard land,
what it would be,
could be, forged
of a kind of brotherhood.
They run up and ask you
if you have seen
this hot spring, this glacier,
some iceberg today
crossing a northern fiord,
or the dogs, horses,
animals of an icy world
where so little else moves,
few mammals or birds,
only the silence, a human
thing, blended with hardy
others, all creatures.
