My dog’s in summer-dry pasture, madly digging.
He kicks up rocks and clods with his digging.
The pasture’s full of ankle-busting holes leading
down to tunnel-labyrinths, critter-digging.
Bones and roots live their long lives underneath
where I walk, wondering about all this digging.
Ground squirrels and gophers thrive down there,
to surface in our garden, gnawing and digging.
Tuberous blind eyes, tapping, a push to discover
beginnings, and my dog won’t stop digging.
An ancient streambed runs golden deep
in dreams, gives up scraps to miners’ digging.
Our town’s built on tunnels seeking that rich
vein underground, and the earth shifts. Digging.
My dog pauses as if listening to wordless tales,
silent history, before he resumes his digging.
Do stones and roots reach like fingers
with ur-hunger that’s the source of digging?
My dog sends dirt flying as if expecting miracles
or maybe it’s just a dog’s great joy in digging.