Walking in October

Magic ages.

But cats will, at fifteen. And it's subtle;
if you didn't know her, you wouldn't notice.
It's just a little difference in the way she goes,
Her coat a touch less sheen.

The puppy isn't quite a dog. He still galumphs.
I wasn't expecting, when I mapped and planned our life
to watch myself that way, but with a greater wariness:
getting to know the person who is
learning to know this dog
come lately from last year's pup.

This week is hot October,
as though the year just now noticed
summer'd galloped smoothly by
and the first mushrooms of this winter's bloom
are pushing impatient from moist earth.

But you can't make up lost time.
The leaves break crisply
beneath our paws.
Noon sun ignites white blazing
in new long coat;
and there's still sheen, for now,
in one that's been here all along.

We live our lives, we dance in dappled shadow;
and still, we run.