The Buckeye and the Sycamore.
Leaves falling into water.
The water.
The scattering
of small black bugs on the surface of the water.
That which is light enough
to ride upon the surface.
The fish and the shadow of the fish.
The shadow.
The long eddy spinning us
back upstream,
holding us
in place
for a moment.
Her river-soaked fur.
How clean it was after, water
beaded on her back like stars.
Her easing into water
a way I could ease into it too,
the way she drank water as she waded
a way I could drink too.
The deep breath she drew,
snout deep in roots.
The earth eternally new.
As she loved to walk,
even when she couldn’t stand up on her own afterwards.
I should have gotten in front of her pain.
You have to get in front of the pain.
