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.