daily life, relationships, nostalgia
This cold morning I let the dog out and walk barefoot with her. She is getting old , though she runs ahead, her half-wolf coat rippling over muscles. I follow her to a place beneath our hill where a river runs between two banks of brambles. She stops and lays her body in a shallow part and looks at me, hanging her tongue over her teeth. She has been with me since I was nine. I sit on a rock next to her, burrowing my toes into the silt, and scratch her neck.
"Don't Come Back for Jane,"
Inscape: Vol. 6:
1, Article 22.
Available at: https://scholarsarchive.byu.edu/inscape/vol6/iss1/22