It was a month of revelation for the doggy prophets;
God’s scent was everywhere– in the leaf litter,
in the mash of crabapples and the scat of squirrels,
in acorns splitting like the Red Sea. Every pitchy pine
and toadstool prophesied in vapors, and the rotted stalks
of reeds whistled proverbs to the breezes.
“The drooly dog days now are done,” barked Rover
to his wagging flock. “Cast off thy panting lassitude.
Seek not the shade of leafy trees, nor flee the mellow
embers of the sun, which harvest sweet and fetid balms
from summer’s fallen garden. And fear no evil
in the year’s malodorous decay.
“For verily I say– your God is not some scentless god,
wafting through a formless sky, but eddies up
from reeking ground when all the world is in decline,
a gamy stench will be His sign, a concatenation
of the butt liquors of creation. Seek not the inodorous
white bone of winter. Still less the fragrant frippery of spring.
“For every dog has got its day, when, drunk
on all that wastes away, he sniffs a path to ecstasy.
Follow, therefore, thy musely muzzle, wheresoever
it leadeth– yea, even unto putrefaction. For truth
may be in the eye of the beholder, and any floppy ear
can hear the music of the spheres.
“But only the nose knows where it’s going
in late November, when every lucky dog can catch a whiff
of God, whose paradise stinks to high heaven.
Yet who dwells upon this moldering earth,
and, lo, within the lowliest of loams,
the very night soil of the Everlasting.”