When to Say Goodbye

 

If all goes well it will never happen.

The dry grass in the shade whispers

 

while the vines crunch underfoot,

releasing a bitter odor. A year ago

 

I led my dog to his death, the third

in five years. How such counting

 

precedes affection, dwindles ever

so slowly, one star winking out after

 

another, till only the morning gray

hangs above us, solemn, indefinite.

 

Voiceless. If I could cock my head

to howl, who would understand? Not

 

one dog or three, neither mother nor

mentor, not my friend’s sister nor her

 

father and his nephews, the two boys

belted safely in the back seat. No.

 

I walk downhill and closer to the creek,

where the vines are still green.

 

In the shade of a large cedar, a turtle

slips into the water and eases away.