Ranch Dogs
Whatever I was saying, I’ve forgotten, now,
words winding back and forth– always away from me,
down a road like little cars on a dewy morning.
Deer graze past the asphalt, sun-punctured sky above,
their god-fearing eyes illuminated in its rays.
This is rural: unknown.
This is a Bermuda Triangle.
Words disappear and few miss them,
but we are some of the few that do, and so we call
for them to come home, lost pets in the night.
I hope they’re wandering so it’s not a lie
to tell the children that they are,
and they never died before our eyes,
but ranch dogs don’t run away.