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by Brooks Briggs

Ross points, sees it
in the sagebrush,
taut, triggered in sand.
It’s there he says, but
I can’t see its dusted fur.

His hand stirs the heat,
“Go around, go around.”
I edge the brush, root myself
on the other side. Ross’s eyes
glare down on breathing shadow.

He’ll step too soon.

Darting gray,
low – its radiating
ears are hauling
right for me.
It sees, squares,
fires lengthwise
along the wash’s bank,
then leaps into dryness,
scattering across heated silt.

Ross throws,
begins the chase, scooped
rocks in hand; tube-socks pump
in alternating frenzy;
I’m yelling:
You’ll never catch it you’ll
                            never catch it!

Two washes and a rusted car –
I see his head a mile away,
bobbing in horizon. He
halts and raises
up, a rock-chuck
sniffing for news.

He’s lost him, I say, he’s
lost him.

I take my stick, drill
a hole. I draw a circle
and some lines. I watch
him weave north,
then south.

It’s almost lunch; sandwiches
at home. I stomp fanning prints
in just, align arch and heel
in double-wide marks.
He won’t come back –
                   not till noon.