the reality of it

the foxes got her, of course
that big dog fox down by the
dovecote, I imagine
her fine bones bleached
in the rock bed
of the creek,
dry now in the remains of winter,
the creekbed she'd hunted
brave and foolish

i don't go there much
anymore
nor through those woods beyond
not as brave
i suppose
but foolish: i hang onto
the echo of her yet.

we avoid the old path, my dog
and I
missing her in the odd
moments of the evening walk.
we await the spring
when the creek again
rushes and the aspen bud out
in tender green glory and her echo
fades into a new season
her death a mere fact
in time