ABIGAIL B. CALKIN
'Blaze'

two days earlier had again
walked on the porch of the cabin,
her head and forefeet in the door,
snorting her presence.
I held my young son in my arms
as he held the carrots Blaze ate.
We patted, she nuzzled.

Today flies lay their eggs as yellow jackets
suck her honeyed head.

Eighteen years later a new neighbor
fetches her water from the spring
in Blaze's washout.