Joel Byron Barker
I rolled the window down a half mile from home. I smelled the rain upon the desert.
I opened my hand into the wind. As bright the day had been, the chill wrapped my fingers in the dark.
A testament is an expression of conviction. If you write a testament people can find you. The words map a path to where you stand.
Drove through the gate and to the house that holds the inside where this stanza will end.
I heard feet drumming gravel before I made out the dog, black with white tipped paws and tail, come in from the vast black night.
We went in through the garage and I closed the door.
Should I be able to choose my testament, it is not written. It is the open hand in the lonely autumn dark.
It is the black dog that comes prancing back.