The red dog joins me at the black dog’s grave,
atop the endless southern plain, not far from the border with Utah;
a spot accessible in snow or mud, and therefore popular for dumping carcasses.
To dig a grave for an elk or a deer would be absurd,
and the litter of white bones from previous hunts surrounds our two figures –
caught between the ground that conceals our friend’s frozen body
and a warning written on the lid of winter’s coffin:
“Wyoming is such an odd place, where no one will expect you to be anything at all.”