For A Dog

I’m listening to the cool night air of northern Michigan and Bandit stirs awake. The crumpling poly tarp and his muscles stretch before he pads over to the rocky bed of ninebark and soaks the soapy white blossoms. Takes but one moment alone, and he’s back by my side, his belly quietly heaving in the stillness of our tent. He died at five, and this is how I think of him.