Poem
The rescue people guess he’s a mix
of feist and mountain cur, a common
stray in this area. That first night,
before we thought to move his crate
to our bedroom so he could sense us near,
breathing, it was in a distant room
where first he whimpered and then from deep
in his belly began to howl and howl,
barely a breath between, the same mournful
music of bagpipes at a funeral.
He was calling his pack, calling them
to him, so alone. I imagine him
howling in dark mountain ravines, curled
in blown leaves for a bed, chasing rabbits
at dawn, his ribs sharply protruding,
hungry all the time. Beside my desk
while I write, he curls in his smallest shape,
lets out long sighs, gets up and follows me
when I move. This one won’t get away.
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