While Walking My Dog’s Ghost
I spot a baby rabbit
lying still in a clump of grass
no wider than my hand.
It quivers, but I pretend
not to have seen, for fear
that the dog, ghost or not,
will frighten and chase it
into the brush, beyond
its mother’s range,
perhaps to become lost
and thirsty, malnourished,
filthy, desperate, much
like the dog when we
found each other that hot,
dry evening so long ago.
This first appeared here in September 2016.
O at the Edges 
I love this poem, Robert. Your dog poems are beautiful.
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Thank you, Alison. We’re temporarily without dog, but one will find its way to us in the future. đŸ™‚
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It’s funny/odd that I read this poem first thing this morning, after we adopted a new pup just last night (our beloved dog died three years ago and we were finally ready). XO
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We’re ready, but need to replace the flooring before taking that step. Perhaps this summer.
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Love the title. What sort of ghost is your dog?
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Thank you. An Australian Cattle Dog, aka blue heeler.
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