Poetry / The Black Dog’s Grave

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.”