Back for a weekend at my parents’
(the place where we both grew up)
Kita and I walk the gravel drive.
She bolts off. Before she can get caught
in the barbed wire fence, I ease
into locking the length of her leash.
She freezes. Across the field
Maggie, who looks like Mollie
(who was an Aussie-Collie
and Kita’s canine companion
until a car hit her one Black
Friday night five years ago)
peeks at Kita through the gaps
of a red steel gate that separates
Kurt’s yard from his vacant cow pasture.
Maggie barks a minute, then turns
away, retreats to her own porch.
Kita stares after.