Years since—
his bowl gone,
yard grown over,
collar hanging
unused.
This morning,
cleaning the window,
I found it—
one print,
low in the corner,
half lost to light.
It floored me.
Solid.
Sure.
The weight of him
in a single mark.
I stood
cloth in hand,
his breath
suddenly in the room.
Didn’t wipe it.
Didn’t move.
Just watched
as the sun warmed the glass
and brought him
loping back
through the yard
and the years.
Ryan Stone
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