Every
morning for twenty years I’ve seen
them
come and go, follow the water’s trail
in green
and snow, the dog turning from brown
to
black, part of the toll on every path, the mean
his
master’s always trodden through wind and hail
now
solid ground as they trek their way to town,
each
sensing the other’s mood and pace,
the
man slow, his friend a-trot as down
they
go, then swing to where they find the rail
‘s
rise, so up, up to the crossing place,
the
bridge their crown.
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