Wet night at May's onset.
The dog's claws tick along the sidewalk,
disappear in the darkness.
But I linger beside my neighbor's garden,
overcome by the hot honeyed scent.
I close my eyes, a darker dark,
and for the first time this year
breathe in spring's green commencement.
The next morning, passing by, I discover
the source of my enchantment:
the pale sawdust swirls across the pavement.
Though I couldn't fathom whim or reason,
he's taken down the line of old balsam
that marked the border
between mine and his.