[wpaudio url=”/audio/june12/Haight.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
The farmers despise your kind I’m told
because you favor the nutrient-rich organs
of lambs that you devour without first killing them
and I imagine the bloodstained fur
around your pale tan mouth, black lips
and even teeth dangling a few scraps
of flesh when I find you on the side
of the road, lying across some fallen tree trunks
and branches that hold you above the ground
your body bent back on itself
and your head twisted toward the road.
The hunters who searched for you
with their pick-up trucks and walkie-talkies
all winter never found you. I had hoped
they wouldn’t each morning I saw them
when I was out walking my dogs.
There is no blood anywhere
on your golden and white fur
still trembling a little in the breeze,
no gunshot wound or arrow puncture.
Your purple tongue hangs out
as if you might open your eyes
and lick my hand as I lift you
off the logs to place you on the ground
out of sight of the road
while the snow slowly falls over us both
over the woods, over the road
covering your body with its cool, white sheet
covering my tracks as I slip back up the road
unseen in the gathering morning light.