bruorton

We buried him in the high meadow

where he always loved to race ahead

and hide in the tall grass, then pretend

to ambush us when we came along.

We left no marker, with only the edges

of displaced sod to show the grave

which will disappear by next spring—

so that, not knowing where precisely,

this whole field will be his resting place.

Or, at a greater remove, this whole mountain

where once he ranged up and down

with us in all seasons, whether in the dark

and moody hemlock woods, by the stream

as we foraged in autumn for chanterelles,

or up the steep eroded slope, to the hidden

orchard at the top, planted generations ago,

giving still an ambrosia perfume every spring.

But this seems the right place for him

to rest; nothing more is needed.

For a gravestone, simply the sun slanting

on the distant pines. For an epitaph,

the thrush and chickadee calling

from the great and spreading ash.

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