The dog on the path appears
from the shadows of nothing.
About the size of a wolf,
it does not growl, nor does it move
its down-pointed tail. Like solitude
or winter, a glaze across
its smooth black coat. A bat
cuts through dusk’s thinning light.
Under my boots mule dung and sand
sticky with resin-wet needles. The sun
rolls back. Bees and time linger
in gravity’s gold hue. Clay rooftops
of Litochoro burn red. Clouds lose heft —
divested of earthy commitment. Slanted
forward, I continue up. There are goat
smells — I hear them crying but cannot see
their shaggy brown coats. Wind gusts
through the cauldron, Zeus hurling judgments
down at Echo. Soon, no shadows or root-held
stones, just loosened slake and time-pressed snow.
No birds or trees atop the mountain. Gods,
not dogs, above the muses.
