I guided Rosie past cranes
slamming metal balls into the hospital
where my children were born,
past bulldozers digging graves
for a new state prison.

I ushered her to the amphitheater
of old cinder blocks by the lake
where she sniffed the crotches
of glitzy laurels, peed on dogwoods
loitering in aisles and exits.

When shadows crept from boulders
to stab other shadows
on leaves already bloodied by Fall,
she hid her face in the dark
green banners of ivy,

ignored the hawk
pecking the head of a pickerel
in a dead tree, the chorus
of geese honking and beating
their wings on the shore.

Together we walked
toward the Great-blue heron
studying its reflection in the lake,
the Great-horned owl
chanting its mantra from an oak.

The sun lowered
a curtain on the scene.
Wind rearranged the stage.
Rosie peeked at the moon
lighting the second act:

Orion waving his sword
at seven starlets
who screamed without words
at the dark
until they ran out of breath.

A cell-phone tower
signaled the show was over.
Clouds mopped up the stars.
Rosie whimpered at thunder,
tugged her leash when it began to rain.