It happens during my morning walk
to the dog park, observing how naturally
other dogs congregate at the drop
of something thrown, mine (Walter) straining
on the leash. I look lost
not spanieling round the other dog walkers
for hamlet gossip, engrossed
by thoughts that don’t seem worthy
of communion. Sometimes though,
 
I vow to join and blend in.
Nothing extreme as hosting
a neighborhood barbeque or organizing
a park clean-up, but temporal
gestures: a few glad handshakes, offerings
of small talk and amusing stories, bland
offices I often find too much—
the thought of it makes my pulse
skip. Wonder if someone reading this
 
understands my feeling shy
of social skills, remote from a flock
that insulates—never
the first to dance, more like the last,
clumsy shoes nipping at a partner’s toes—
think of a warped mirror at a carnival,
the watery image
others naturally see reversed,
but no less out of place.
 
Like last night’s nature show
about an orphan whale blowing plaintive clicks
to an alien pod, trying not to stir trouble
among the thinning krill. I’ve tried to imagine
a comfortable fit
in this smiling fold, feeling content
with a plainsong of gregarious chat—
only to scurry home with Walter
who, even asleep, guards my door.

Surely not primordial static
from the farthest edge
the original hum
a not-quite randomness
stirring our inchoate faith
in a message out there
 
and likely not
a thrash of breakers against
the rocks
in spumes of lathery breath
sibilants from thousands
of unformed voices
residue of pelagic memoire
 
and presumably
not the rasp
of an east wind parching
a chorus of birch leaves
in their flap
and patter of a so much
to tell if only
we could hear
 
and perhaps not anything
at all—husks
chattering beneath our feet
a rustle in the grass
from something passing by
or its striving
or vanishing
sounds dissipated through a canyon
and the faint ricochet of an
echo