— For David Shevin, in loving memory

I will find myself waist deep in high summer grass. The humming 
             shock of the golden light. And I will hear them before I see
them and know right away who is bounding across the field to meet 
             me. All my good dogs will come then, their wet noses
bumping against my palms, their hot panting, their rough faithful 
             tongues. Their eyes young and shiny again. The wiry scruff of
their fur, the unspeakable softness of their bellies, their velvet ears 
             against my cheeks. I will bend to them, my face covered with
their kisses, my hands full of them. In the grass I will let them knock 
             me down.