Cedar Bog

She darts in and out of the cedars that line the old bog,

decides on a deep muddy hole to cool herself off

and emerges black as the bear who spent his winter there.

The storm is near, palpable underfoot as the thunder tears

through trees and she chases the beast through green

and gold prairie grass.

I look for cover but there is none, vernal budding just begun;

on the path I wait for her return while the rain falls and drowns

out all but a retriever chasing the roar of colliding clouds.