Among Remains
The dog who mines spring
mud for squirrel shards
this morning just stares,
in awe or empathy,
a deer skeleton sprouting
from rain-washed gravel,
scrabble of ribs and spine,
scapula fanning like wings,
sacrum cocked to catch
my soft command,
no. But the dog already knows
nothing here is hers because
we rarely find a whole
alphabet of bones and teeth.
More likely a prayer or small regrets
spelled among remains.
