I’m thinking of the buck that my dog chased yesterday—how I barely got a good look at ‘em: his brown and gray and branch of antler, disappearing into brown and gray and branch of creek-bed, dried up in the June heat. How my dog shouldn’t be able to run like that—not anymore— like a kite, I mean, tied by invisible string to a fleeing thing. His back legs, deaf to the neural conversation, picked up and propelled suddenly—across creek, and street, and hill. As a child’s toy was