by J. Weitzel
Late Night Dog Walk
The dog tilted his head against the moon.
He kept walking but was keenly aware of the shadow's eye
Against the field fence plastic white, his handlers leash and moving form.
On the return trip, both of them slowed, noses turned to the illuminating cast.
Two shadows now, the illusion of late light or the sense of being followed.
The rope tightened and his bark hollowed.
All along he knew something was about to break, a cracked sky, a door to the past.
This dog never responded to commands, to stay or go, sworn
Only to protect, to strain against the holding back, the choking chain of sigh.
Just a few more steps to the front door, the lock turn and the feeling of getting there too soon.
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