The leather farmer buried the dog several hours
before I saw it underneath the belly of a car,
running its paws sideways into the air,
calling out like a coyote or a kettle.
The mountains were continuous but for one line
of sweat, beads of automobiles on route 36 streaming,
and I ran towards the thin pearls from the east,
interrupting grasshoppers, also gleaming, shining wet.
It was morning and he was mourning, out there with a golden shovel,
his truck parked asleep on the side of the road,
his forearms capable of transcending time and place,
burying the dog slowly that wasn't yet dead, in his or someone's corn field.
He buried the dog that hadn't yet even gone out for his walk.
He buried the dog that napped,
in morning sun, sleeping, east,
somewhere, on the other side of the city.
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