In Memory of the Family Dog

Written by: Tamra Amato

for Sam

We take turns stabbing 
with our shovel at rocky clay dirt
until the cut's deep 
enough for what little remains 
of our family dog.
Warm wet salt drops--
on my tongue as
I sip wine from a fragile glass
Stare through to hawks 
swimming in October winds
circling hills full of Diablo
full of still, 
old oaks--
small, 
petrified, bony.