Running Teeth

I am walking toward the frozen river

down at the end of the block

at three am over squeaking snow

ready to arrive and revel in its metaphors,

its shards and pools

and the last patch of open water.

When an eruption of dogs

from the leafless birches

disperses my easy thoughts,

a chattering of bark! bark! bark!

And just as I think how stupid

they come low at my ankles

bark! bark! bark!

the way some other dogs did this summer

and imprinted a lingering fear

of running teeth.

A blurring rustle of black fur

and I wonder is this what it would be like

to face oncoming wolves
at the edge of town?

And then they pass

still bark! bark! barking!

and disappear up the road to the gun club.

I turn back toward the house,

no aurora tonight only the pink lit clouds

of downtown Fairbanks,

and leave the river to move

underneath itself.