John Mecca

I watch the two retrievers,
far up on the hillside,
weaving slow paths between each other.
One brown, one blonde,
I imagine they're both panting.

The man walking with them seems old,
but not lonely.
The dogs,
and the sagebrush,
and everyone's exhales,
and myself,
keep him company.

He descends a cut in the hillside,
presuming rocks and uncertainty,
he'll walk past my car, might say hello,
a gesture sent from a few feet through the breeze;
the dogs will sniff my tires, then
all three will go.

They never did traipse past.