Time to Go In

You poke the fire in the fireplace,
the burned-out logs release two
tiny flames then crumble to ash.
Not enough flame left to send sparks
up the chimney and startle some bird
in the belief the stars are falling.
The night seems quiet, you mark
your place and close the book
and stretch, the last word has been read.
Did you ever feel the wet tongue
of a dog ready to go out? You scratch
the soft ears, head for the back door.
The cold air takes your breath away,
not winter yet but a winter sky
forming its constellations, you
try to identify them while the dog
chases a shadow under the lilac bush.
His warm footprints leave dark marks
on the frosty grass. You let him run,
shiver slightly, the fireplace seems
far away. Why does a man study the sky,
coatless, hatless, in this weather?
To orient himself, mark his place,
to let him know where he lives? But he owns
a zodiac and sorts out the stars
as a stranger might the signs
in a foreign country. It is growing late,
call the dog, time we both went in.