Anne Britting Oleson
Walking the dog, I pause long enough
to watch the freshet tumbling
out of winter hibernation,
over stones, into a foaming pool,
before making its escape
through the culvert beneath the tar.
Did Jung have a dog? Or did he
merely stumble across his negative ions
on some aimless ramble,
then claim them for his own?
I try to picture him standing, as I do,
hands in pockets, chin down,
regarding the source of his aqueous high.
But his image, as always, fades,
melding into yours:
right arm straining with the weight
of a bucket, water captured
from the cold roar of Munsungan Falls,
and I, watching you as the words
you speak are rushed away
by the impatient stream, leaving behind
only an ineffable electricity.
©2012 This work is the property of the author.