Had I been there and watching when
these marks were made, I would have
known more about what kind of dog
it was. About the size and breed and
color of its coat.
All the scene tells is that a dog was
there and then was gone. It left its
wet footprints and perhaps was
hurried on by smells and sights up
ahead. Even imagined ones, which
can happen with a dog. Or us.
What can wetness on a bridge mean
on a fine sunny day unless a dog
waded or romped in the nearby creek?
In water now flowing to the distance
and never to return.
Wet prints on dry wood hold no
hope of lasting on and arouse the
question: what does?
Do empires, wealth, and worldly fame
go on and on, as those who seek them
hope for?
Or are they much like this: dog
prints on a bridge which will soon
come to nothing? Brief as a dog’s
sip of water from the creek.
How many hikers who cross this
bridge will notice here these marks
so plain beneath them? How
many will think these thoughts?
We pass over and then are gone.
