Searching the Dark
July 1983, another phone call after midnight,
another long drive, your Shepherd-dog head
in my lap. How many people got lost that summer!
Late March 1986, by flashlight on dirt paths
of The Divide. Mine shafts in the dark. Then
you lifted your nose, scenting across the canyon.
Small child huddled under manzanita.
1985, Mexico City. High-rises shaken to rubble.
Flashlight through tunnels. Could you find anyone
alive? At night you slept against me for comfort.
Smell of death and concrete dust in your fur.
Almost winter 1988. Too old for searches,
you laid your chin heavy on my knee as I tied
my boot-laces. Brown eyes. This time I left you home.
1987, Yosemite. In last light, oak leaves golden
with fall. Your “woo-woo!” of Shepherd joy
led me into the darkening woods.
December 1988. How could I know, when I came back
sometime in the night, you’d be gone?
Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2006
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