Invisible Ink


I’ve walked here daily,
dog scouting ahead,
through the moldy dank of spring
into autumn’s auguring litter.

The dog’s nose is always down,
implacably drawn
to the black-footed mouse
or the secretest of weasels.

Today an inch of powder
canvassed the ground blank
and the deer clearly mapped
their cuneiform passage.

This bush just off the path
where the dog digs in his heels
is now neatly ringed with
raccoons’ star-fingered walks.

The white sheet of the world,
held above a bulb
where the heat reveals
its lemon-juice message:


LouAnn Shepard Muhm