He lives, who last night flopped from a log <br />Into the creek, and all night by an ankle <br />Lay pinned to the flood, dead as a nail <br />But for the skin of the teeth of his dog. <br /> <br />I brought him boiled eggs and broth. <br />He coughed and waved his spoon <br />And sat up saying he would dine alone, <br />Being fatigue itself after that bath. <br /> <br />I sat without in the sun with the dog. <br />Wearing a stocking on the ailing foot, <br />In monster crutches, he hobbled out, <br />And addressed the dog in bitter rage. <br /> <br />He told the yellow hound, his rescuer, <br />Its heart was bad, and it ought <br />Not wander by the creek at night; <br />If all his dogs got drowned he would be poor. <br /> <br />He stroked its head and disappeared in the shed <br />And came out with a stone mallet in his hands <br />And lifted that rocky weight of many pounds <br />And let it lapse on top of the dog's head. <br /> <br />I carted off the carcass, dug it deep. <br />Then he came too with what a thing to lug, <br />Or pour on a dog's grave, his thundermug, <br />And poured it out and went indoors to sleep. <br /> <br />I saw him sleepless in the pane of glass <br />Looking wild-eyed at sunset, then the glare <br />Blinded the glass—only a red square <br />Burning a house burning in the wilderness.<br /><br />Galway Kinnell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/burning-33/
