In the bay, people are walking their dogs
on water and pretending it’s ice.

I’m new here, but I’m not blind.
 
Eager dog paws and bright boots kick up water
as they slosh further from shore.

Their excursions unnerve me.  I wonder
what ancient heat, what fanning winds
have driven them to this mad adventure.

I will admit,
the sun has drawn close,
intense and bright, 
and I feel 
slightly intoxicated, 
and even, a bit ornery.  Still.

I haven’t forgotten the definition of foolhardy, or just plain dumb. 

Maybe I’m just a cautious old dog, 
puppy love once, but long ago.

I lean forward to watch the show. 

I wonder how they know, these tethered companions,
When it’s time to stop walking?

When is the day they walk to the edge, and turn back?

Or maybe they don’t. Maybe here 
they keep venturing out 
onto melting ice, hoping for the best.
 
Maybe here they ignore
thin ice warnings
from the news and their 
friends. Maybe they even 
ignore the snapping 
under their own feet.
 
Maybe, one more walk
on a brilliant day is
worth the plunge, 
worth the flailing 
through icy water to emerge, 
half-dead, onto the shore.

I lean my body back
into the smooth curve
of the bench, and zip my coat 
up over my chest,  and
settle on the verge
of maybe Spring.