My cat Sherlock died in April
his twilight-hued pelt stained red,
his gentle length crushed
under the wheels of a silver van.
I saw him last night: perfect,
dream-whole. His fur sleek, he perched
above me on a high hill’s crest.
Behind him, rich September sky,
a low red pine cone-heavy at his side.
He watched a Saint Bernard scrabble
up the steep talus slope, entreating.
Though my ears discerned no purr,
Sherlock’s gaze encompassed dog and me,
his benevolent face promised welcome.