From a cold stone stoop,
stepping down slowly
into another spring,

stretching his back,
stretching his back legs,
one leg at a time,

making a bridge
with his spine, reaching
from winter out and out,

forever out it seems,
then quaking at the end of it,
all down his length

so that his claws
skitter a little, losing
their grip on the world,

an old brown dog
gone stiff from chasing
all winter through dreams,

recovers his balance,
and, one ache at a time,
lowers himself

to the solid field of promise,
where with pink tip
of tongue between his teeth,

and frosty muzzle,
he sips the cool, delicious,
richly storied wind.