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Breakfield Road

(for Jake, 1989-2005) The briar draws a perfect bead of bloodto tender flesh as my dog pulls his headfrom tangled vines and brittle winter thorns.He shakes and wags but otherwise remainsunfazed by such intrusions. He is quickto note the next small heap of leaves, to checkthe air, the ground, . . . . Continue Reading »

Roland on Dreams

It was, I believe, the third time that the small, hard, moist rubber ball struck my forehead and dropped to my pillow that I awakened fully (or dreamed I had done). The gaze that met my own was that of my dog Roland, his coal-black snout, drooping brown ears, and handsome chalk-and-charcoal face so . . . . Continue Reading »

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