Alleys

Alleys

My dogs and I choose the alleys over the streets,
their porous surfaces underfoot; alleys massage
the dew claw and the dew and all substances that enter
EARTH. The backways offer scents for my companions
to ponder and consecrate while I gather dandelions
and clover for the rabbits and hens. Sometimes, I
let one free, as the alleys accept wild ways. Tall
grasses, ivy fighting with knotweed, wheel barrow
leaning, a shovel standing erect, compost piles.
Life seems real here: less for show and more about
what is required. Some folks garden out back. Mason
bees pollinate overgrown borage. I spy a green plum
and think I will return here in August. Without eating,
I swallow hard over chard of every color, ripe berries.
A crow saunters ahead of us and takes a short flight
onto a post, waiting for us to move on. Again and again,
the dogs follow scent trails that I cannot detect, the
hidden paths of others who ambled here. Perhaps for a
rodent that has passed this way, the smaller dog yips and
spiral dances. We pause at a school yard but there are
no children today, just acrobat swallows diving for bugs.