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This is the weekend we remember.  This is the time we our hearts grow sable dark and brood, as though there is a silence in the yard, a stillness along the fence behind the birdbath, under the cherry guava hedge. On the 8th day of April, 2000, our beloved Stella crossed the bridge.  Now we remember a puppy in the grass, a steadfast and often prescient friend of 13 years, kisses and toys and long bounding runs on the trails above the sea.  May my heart never relent in its breaking. 
HUNTER'S HORN



At night in the woods,
even the bonfires
of memory fade.  The faces
around us disappear. 
So we watch, or sleep.
There is a horn
or a bagpipe far away,
behind the hill.

We could make a sound 
of equal sadness,
as if the rain
were softly falling
on the cold ground,
on the abandoned plow
that leans into twilight,
the horse gone back
to the barn alone.

A fox is stirring somewhere
on the rugged hill,
so as the fires die
at some small cold hour,
through the trees we hear
the crying of the dogs.



               
Copyright 1998 by Kyle Kimberlin
Stella's Page
Kyle's note marking the second anniversary of Stella's death, on April 8, 2002:
Tasha on the deck, keeping close watch on the back fence, 10/12/02.
The Tash, having a Red Bull in downtown Carp, 10/12/02.
In a favorite thoughtful spot, 10/12/02
Note: float your cursor over each photo, to see the note that might be scribbled on the back, if these weren't digital photos.
More Photos
Tasha napping on her blue towel
Tasha posing on the rug
Stella Running with Dad