Girl used to hold the dog back each winter, would catch
him with wet-yarned hands, would near her head to his,
making a strange fur of blonde and brown.
Sky is a cap now, bone-
grey, snug upon all the world
seen by the dog's maple eyes.
Snow's approach is blood
to the dog's nose, a scent
familiar, like metal and damp dust.
Water bears the tang of waiting,
the dog tastes a fever in it, a spark
of fear just before the ice.
Paws are a hard rhythm in the night,
and the dog knows the day's sinking
will signal his time to run.
Wind takes the place of sun,
lifts a tunnel-path into the air, calls
for the dog to join, calls him by his name.
Bones are cold in a night so buried;
there are no fingers now, not even around his dog-
heart, nothing to keep it from freezing.