[Jim Ramsey]

Version 3 responding to most of Richard's newest nits and now with edits to last lines responding to Sam's crit, and now once more by using Sam's suggested last line instead of the previous "this feat atop the morning bucket list."

A Matter of Some Consequence

She doesn’t care that it’s dark mid-winter.
I check to gauge how warm I need to dress,
—a hat and gloves plus scarf, two coats, no less,
and bags for messes left in lands of hinter.

She tries to stretch her territory widely,
but we’re not hunter-gathering, we’re shitting.
One more bush to sniff, man, we’re not quitting.
“But just one more,” implore I—never snidely.

This rescue's tale: Was dumped on a country road,
has thirty shotgun pellets beneath her skin—
a scrounging stranger greeted not as kin,
her limp and fear of thunder so bestowed.

And then we cross the street to Babel’s hydrant.
She finds there ancient voices, smells, and codes
of DNA dispersed, goes detective mode,
and whines and snuffles odes to wild ways silent.

She strains at leash’s end, and though we’ve been
here every day this year, she keeps her focus.
It’s right here, bro, my lifelong goal, the locus
of dreams! The bag I hold is eco-green;

I wear it like a mitten pulled past wrist,
then lift her gift to stars and cold. It’s steaming hot,
and reeks with love in ways her past cannot
—this tribute from the morning's bucket list.

[end]

[previous last stanza that was replaced responding to Sam's crit]

I wear it like a mitten pulled past wrist,
then lift her gift to stars and cold. It’s steaming hot,
and reeks of trust and love her pains do not
—befitting gods, this offering held up high in fist.

suggestionNewest edit: S2and S3 switched
Version 2 with original S1 deleted, my dog's limp added to S2 and a couple other changes based on Richard's suggestions and my own revision

A Matter of Some Consequence

She doesn’t care that it’s dark mid-winter.
I check my phone in heed of need of dress
—a hat and gloves plus scarf, two coats, no less,
and bags for messes left in lands of hinter.

She tries to stretch her territory widely,
but we’re not hunter-gathering, we’re shitting.
One more bush to sniff, man, we’re not quitting.
“But just one more,” reply I, begging mildly.

This rescue's tale: Was dumped on a country road,
has thirty shotgun pellets beneath her skin—
a scrounging stranger greeted not as kin,
her limp and fear of thunder then bestowed.

And then we cross the street to Babel’s hydrant.
She finds there ancient voices, smells, and codes
of DNA dispersed, goes detective mode,
and whines and snuffles odes to wild ways silent.

She strains at leash’s end, and though we’ve been
here everyday this year, she keeps her focus.
It’s right here, bro, my lifelong goal, the locus
of dreams! The bag I hold is eco-green;

I pull it past my hand and down the wrist,
then lift her gift to stars and cold. It’s steaming hot,
and reeks of trust and love her pain cannot
—befitting gods, this offering held up high in fist.

Version 1

A Matter of Some Consequence

The rescue dog consults her trusty clock
and wakes me up to greet the layered frost
and brightness of the morning star among the loft
of stars that chalk the sky: Hey, man, it’s time to walk!

She doesn’t care that it’s dark mid-winter.
I check my phone in heed of need of dress
—a hat and gloves plus scarf, two coats, no less,
and bags for messes left in lands of hinter.

She’s had it rough. Was dumped on a country road,
has thirty shotgun pellets beneath her skin—
this scrounging stranger greeted not as kin
had trembling fear of thunder then bestowed.

She tries to stretch her territory widely,
but we’re not hunter-gathering, we’re shitting.
One more bush to sniff, man, we’re not quitting.
“But just one more,” reply I, begging mildly.

And then we cross the street to Babel’s hydrant.
She finds there ancient voices, smells, and codes
of DNA dispersed, goes detective mode,
and whines and snuffles odes to wildness silenced.

She strains at leash’s end, and though we’ve been
here everyday this year, she keeps her focus.
It’s right here, bro, my lifelong goal, the locus
of dreams! The bag I hold is eco-green;

I pull it past my hand and down the wrist,
then lift her gift to stars and cold. It’s steaming hot,
and reeks of trust and love her tale cannot
—befitting gods, this offering held up high in fist.