In the morning, early,
before my rooster crows,
before there is a stir in the neighborhood.
Even the midnight sun quietly simmers
behind the black spruce on the edge of the yard,
That is when the dogs, full of salmon soup,
and I, full of coffee,
head out into the morning.
The air smells of blueberries and moss
and the little ponds and swamps are just whispering fog into the sky.
That is when we go and practice our
Trying to harmonize our pulse;
mine, the dogs, that gangline,
every tugline, every footfall, every breath, every thought.
As we wind through the tall and dewy grass and low laying mist
from being a girl
and a four wheeler
and 14 dogs,
into a team.
This is what we practice,
for only after this, can we truly begin to train.
In the evening,
it still hot,
but cool enough for the mosquitoes to come out and hunt.
The dogs have finally roused from their sun beat stupor.
There is a quiet buzz of the neighborhood’s chores,
human and animal.
The sun is quietly balancing, tip
to tip on the short black spruce
on the otherside of the yard.
This is when I take the puppies,
full of salmon, goat milk, and rice,
And I, full of Kombucha,
out into the world.
They burst out
like a chaotic, churning cloud.
Sniffing, exploring, every which way.
I get on my bike and give command. They know it now.
They are discovering meaning.
To my words, and to their spirits.
The confusion transforms with that command
into 8 smiling, bounding little puppies.
Off we go down the dirt roads and trails;
we kick up the smell of the mid-day heat,
and the lingering forest fire smoulder.
They drive, and jockey, and glance back at me for validation.
I am teaching them,
we are not a girl
and a bike
and 8 puppies.
We are a team.
And now they know,
we are in search of the becoming one.