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By Taylor Graham
Past the garden and the neighbors'
split-rail fence, out the ridge
to see if yellow tarweed is suddenly
in flower, the last gold of August
The same route, late December mornings
when ponderosa bows under the weight
of last night's snow, the air
in the nostrils.
Always the same path: the dog and I
tracing familiar patterns
from the pinewood door and back.
And now, at 3 in the morning
without a flashlight--
the old dog's so urgent
for me to follow through the dark,
leading me away from home
that's held us so long to our lives;
leading me away from everything
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007