Word whips through the timber town, empties the corner store.
Rising from her midday nap, grandma gapes and asks what's up.
An aproned woman wrings her hands, a picker leaves his oranges,
the miller stills his docking saw, the word is heard all round: "Come'n see.
There's this boy, about thirteen, dragging his dog through town."

The dog is lying on a bag -- a hessian sled, pulled by a gangly boy
who shuffles backwards, crouching low, so the dog won't tumble off.
Mid-summer shimmer, shaded eyes, reluctant nodding heads:
ah, yes, its chest is still, the dog is dead and the boy is crying-blind,
he's hauling it down the road, scraping a trail in the gravel.

A woman fills a tin mug, cool well water, starts towards the boy
but props when her husband growls: "For Christ's sake let the lad be."
The world slows as the boy stops, kneels and positions the dog,
picks ants from blood in its ear, transfers his rag hat to its head.
Fifty yards ahead a lady waves her hanky to keep the traffic clear.

A truck goes rumbling by -- wash of relief then back to the boy
dragging his dog, plowing the haze, brushing off flies with a twig.
The watchers flinch at the rasp of bag on grit, but hold their ground.
A baby cries. A dog is called to heel. While the boy, the boy
drags his dog beyond the furthest house and releases the village.
Two farms more, mainly downhill, and only one mile to home.