Your old mutt snorts and sniffs, leans
his red hide against my solidness,
knows the smell of motor oil, Old Spice, and cigarettes has gone.
Relaxes into the silence of your missing stride beside him,
as I carry the gritty sand of you in a rusty cookie tin.
Amen, I say and spread you
over the ancient, ornery land you loved.
Our November Valley wind attends your send off,
gently lifts you from the granite ground.
Like fog or snow or horses’ breath
you linger In the air;
the seen and unseen,
the here and there,
the living and dead
quarrel like siblings
slinging halfhearted punches.
The crows you named and tried to catch
honor your changing form,
eulogize your soul beyond the sentinel hills,
laugh at the late fall gusts that carry you
carry you
© Michelle Stoll, 2021
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| Image from Wikimedia Commons |
