It’s Saturday, and soon we’ll drive to Mead,
The garden park where on our weekly stroll
The dogs and I will traipse dirt trails that lead
To a pond that’s named for “Alice”—their watering hole.
Then from our perch upon a picnic table,
We’ll watch for squirrels or turtles ambling there
As if this were that Paradise of fable
In a serenity we happily share.
Often we’re joined by friends, Jim Piercey and
Duncan, his black dog, who live nearby
And share an equal fondness for this land
But make their ventures daily, not as I
And Gyp and Tig, who make our weekly jaunt
To this serene and green and blissful haunt.