The Dog That Followed

Third day out we heard the steps behind us.

Didn't run. Didn't bark. Just followed.

Kept a field between himself and us

like distance was a kind of manners.

Ate what we left. Slept where we'd been.

A shadow doing penance

for a body's worth of orders.

One ear up. One eye open.

Even mercy stands a watch.

The dog that followed

sleeps outside the ring of us,

one ear up, all night, every night.

Nobody gives the order —

he gives it to himself now.

Old dog, the watch is over.

Come nearer the fire.

Come near.

He flinches when we sing too sudden.

So do I. So do I.

We were both somebody's instrument.

The difference was the teeth.

And teeth aren't a soul, I've decided.

A soul is what you do

when nobody's holding the leash —

and look at him. Look at him keeping us.

One ear up. One eye open.

Even mercy stands a watch.

The dog that followed

crossed half the field last night,

lay down at the edge of the light.

Half is a long way

for a body built on orders.

Half is most of the whole thing.

Come nearer the fire, old heart.

Come near.

Nobody out here needs guarding.

That's not why we ask.

We ask because the circle's warmer

with every shape it holds.

The dog that followed —

nobody gives the order now.

The watch is over. It's over.

Come nearer the fire.

Come near.

He came near.