Lost, Stolen, Strayed

THE gone dog leaves a ghost.
His bark comes to the door.
Running against our knowing
we whistle to a wish.

We hear his shaking ears
and see the birch at the window
shiver. It was a bird
that fluttered sudden wings.

Returning home, we see
solid delusive air
wagging a welcome dance
baring teeth in a smile.

He was so very here.
Now through the hills of where
he runs — and wounds our waiting
with shams of his return.