I call, annoyed at having to repeat myself...
she collapses right before me.
I lean into her fur that smells like the sun,
and croon my love, my gratitude...
I know she can't stand to be held-
wild dog, snow dog, best friend.
I can't bury her, leg broken...
I feel the rain, I feel the rain...
the rain and her, and wait
at the end of the driveway for the
nice man who uses his backhoe to
bite a piece of earth...
she's laid in Sandy's sleeping bag
(he too gone to Summerland)
and the earth is neatly flipped,
like a pancake,
We are Indian untouchables-
but we are fierce and free of hateful bonds....
my girl, go home,
I'll find you there,
in Ollinger's field.