ALICE’S POND

                    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.

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