She darts in and out of the cedars that line the old bog,
decides on a deep muddy hole to cool herself off
and emerges black as the bear who spent his winter there.
The storm is near, palpable underfoot as the thunder tears
through trees and she chases the beast through green
and gold prairie grass.
I look for cover but there is none, vernal budding just begun;
on the path I wait for her return while the rain falls and drowns
out all but a retriever chasing the roar of colliding clouds.