Winterreise mit Dachsund



















(In which the poet, his dark rougeish locks flowing in the cold wind because he hasn't the sense to wear a hat, is dragged through a suburban winter landscape by an eager wiener dog on a leash).

All muscle those short legs, and through the snowy world we go.

Rock hard dirty ice piled high.

But my dachs is like a brook, a warbling brook of fresh springtime water, running happily along the parapets of piled up ice. Sniffing at the ground. Sniffing the frozen patches of wee-wee.

Away we go, and round and round.

A sort of halfway world with farms and fields on the one edge, half a million semi-detachds on the other, nestled in the snow.

Clear, crisp, air. Anders Celsius says -2. Dog doesn't care.

To meet another dog..they recognize kinship despite all their shapes and sizes. I often wonder how they feel about that; "Ohh, look, there's a fluffy one...". we don't like their barking much, but it's what they have to work with.

Not many birds around today.

A few dogs.

Quite a few people.

Not a very sad or profound Winterreise, then. Not much "Was vermeid' ich denn die Wege, Wo die ander'n Wand'rer geh'n!".

But often taken.

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