The Other Side of Sunlight

by Nate Simpson

Red dog found me
long, long ago,
yet, I still feel
his velvet puppy nose
against my cheek,
the imprint
lingering
long, long after
the wet dried up.


Sunrise of
bearable light,
he was a
comfort present
when others weren’t;
he knew when to be close,
or just near enough.
Head, resting, upon
my leg was
a certain sign
of sympathy, or
simply
a bowl
in need
of filling.

These few,
inadequate words
betray the greater
span of memory:
conquests of
hill and vale, he,
always in the lead,
propelled
by a
tornado
for a tail.

And oh! Those
anxious moments
canoeing Burnt Island Lake:
when
spying
on
a
moose
at
water’s
edge
he nearly put us
in the drink, simply
for want of a new,
four-legged,
friend!

Age
clipped
the
stride, but
his spirit
never faded:
a red streak over
bright winter white,
downhill on toboggan,
sniffing the air, cracking a
toothy smile with the ecstasy
of scent,
at warp speed.

Through walks in
lashing winter
storm, or over
the rocky shore
of a darkening lake,
he was on watch,
present
as the air.

Red dog touched me
long, long ago.

Gone now.

Yet, I
still feel
the soft
touch of
my
Shadow’s
paw prints,
within.