the last island
where the rapids split
elegance and stone
where sycamores rise
mottled gray, the
bones of a writhing valley
that place
all black sand
and
I had a red dog
who on this island
years ago
did long, vicious battle with a coyote
and when it was dead for sure
and buried deep
returned
over and over, to dig up the ribs
its graceful spine
the mask-like, yawning pelvis
and long, sad limbs
forever
we wade the rushing water
to lost islands
and dig
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