We're walking down Main, past the Liars Bench
and the Hangman's Tree and all the old bronzed
49er history. Dog goes snuffling, checking out
whoever walked here yesterday, or just this morning
shedding scurfs of skin and dandruff for the bit
of afternoon breeze to play with, and the single
line of westbound cars to carry along like pebbles
in their tire-treads, and the single line bound
east toward City Hall or the old Soda Works
creating opposite streams and eddies of air, and
people walking from shop to shop swirling up scent
as they shift their bags one arm to the other.
Each passerby's presented in a million tiny packages
scattered for Dog's nose to put back together.
Dog is making good work of it, jigsaw-puzzler
in a German shepherd suit. He trots along as kids
in front of the historic Bell Tower make room,
and two women murmuring window-front to bakery
do a fancy sidestep without breaking conversation.
Dog is writing his own town history without monuments.