The lake is orange when we find him
elbow deep in wetland, his whelp-like whine thrown
to shore like a life line. We stand with empty hanging
hands as the setting sun swallows our Shadow.
My brother speaks. Three-year-old shoulders set, squared.
“We should pray”. I react with doubt as he drops
to his knees, eyes shut, arms crossed.
I slump beside him, sand grinding my shins
hands clasped in assumed humility.
He tells me I’m older, so I should pray. Dear God.
The words are awkward at first. Spilling over my tongue
to halt at the teeth, then flood the air around me.
I pray for our dog. For help we are too small to give.
Amen, like a gunshot, we surge our feet. Eyes seek
descending angels or waters that part. The dog whimpers.
We Call out, chanting his name like a spell.
He cries and lurches. A flash
of white paw, then again- faster and faster
Until we collapse embracing every inch
Of sodden fur as the coming stars herd us home
