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Walking on the Levee on Our Way to Angel Mounds

Mark Williams

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We met on Sunday mornings with our dogs: beagles,
retrievers, John Biacinni’s two German Shepherds,
a collie, a pair of Great Danes, a pit-mix . . .
An ecumenical gathering if ever there was. Once
I counted twenty-one people and twenty-six dogs. No leashes.

Imagine you’re there, but walking the other way,
woods on the Ohio River side, woods on the other,
when you come to a dip in the levee and, over the rise,
a multipack of dogs is coming straight at you. Behind them
a Sunday chorus sings, “They’re friendly!” One time

our beagle Keeper and some other guy’s beagle
(people I didn’t know were joining us) took off
into the woods toward the river, yelping as though
they’d seen ghosts from the Mississippian-era mounds
or smelled deer. For three hours we hunted. Three hours

we shouted, “Kee-per!” I was planning to leave my coat
on the ground where she left us and come back later
when two hikers, using belts for leashes, showed up
with two spent dogs. Five, six years later, I’m called
to jury duty for a trial I’d rather not be called to.

After listening to potential jurors being questioned
for an hour or so, I step into the box with eleven people.
“Do any of you know anyone connected to the case?”
the judge asks. I raise my hand. In a way,
walking on the levee on the way to Angel Mounds

is much like life, in the sense of things happen on the way.
Some good. Some not. Take John Biacinni.
He was running through town with Crusher and Crasher
when he had a heart attack at the corner
of Walnut Lane and Bellemeade. Crusher and Crasher

sat by his side until help came, too late. Or this.
Every dog who walked with us is gone. Finder,
Keeper, two Sophie’s, Buster,
Crusher, Crasher, Civi, Lance . . .
And yet, there are those other times.

“I sort of know the district attorney,” I tell the judge.
“How is that?” the judge asks. Turning to the DA,
I say, “Our beagles picked up a deer scent
on the levee and ran into the woods.” The DA
looks at me, smiles, and says, “Kee-per!”

“You’re excused,” the judge says.
I walk from the courthouse into the distance.

_________

Dedication
Keeper, a stray, followed my wife home on one of her morning runs. Aside from the time Keeper followed a deer scent for three hours, she never strayed from us. We still think of her as our “perfect dog” (though I hope Scout and Dodger don’t read this). This is a picture of Keeper in her Christmas finery. Oh, and my mother dyed her hair to match Keeper’s brown coat.

_________

Mark Williams‘s poems have appeared in The Southern Review, Rattle, Nimrod, New Ohio Review online, and other journals and anthologies. His collection of poems, Carrying On, was published in 2022. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The First Line, Eclectica, The Main Street Rag, Valparaiso Fiction Review, and a Running Wild Press anthology. He lives near Angel Mounds in Evansville, Indiana, with his wife DeeGee, their dogs, Scout and Dodger, and their cat, Zany Grey.

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