I’ve come to walk along the jetty, watch the stingrays
glide around the pylons, their sides fanning and flaring
like the skirts of Spanish dancers, but there’s a large
dog tethered to a pole, idling on low growl, speed-smelling
the wind. Its eyes tell me it is used to the loneliness
of this salt-stiff rope. Perhaps the owner is at the other
end of the bay where the shore’s spiked with fishing rods,
the water tented with sails, a new encampment
of pleasure seekers at the marina and resort. I try to pass
but the dog pulls on its leash. I notice that the spikes
on its collar are as large as its teeth. The wind is cold
and whines like a cowering animal through the sparse
planks of a rowboat. Here the boats are breaking down
to their components like beached sea mammals, diesel
and rust tainting the shallows. Suddenly the dog judders,
barks sharply as if it’s received a boot-driven command,
an abrupt reminder of duty and rank. As I turn to leave,
the noise stops. The dog lies down, rests its muzzle
between its paws. I count the knots in its short, stiff rope.