Billie Dee

The Glint

Our dog’s been missing for weeks. We searched the fields, walked the arroyo, called for him until our voices gave out. Then stopped.

Last night, I laced up my hiking boots and walked out into the dark. No plan, just the need to burn off a long day. And there it was, at the edge of a neighbor’s field: the gleam of a vaccination tag, his still form curled in a drift of thistle, head tilted, muzzle frozen into a grin—bringing him back for a moment, letting him go again.

boundary mark...
coyotes testing
a rising moon

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About the Author

Billie Dee is the former U.S. National Library Service Poet Laureate. She earned her doctorate at University of California at Irvine, has won numerous poetry contests, publishes online and off. She lives in the Chihuahuan Desert with her family and a betta fish named Ramon.

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