Patches did not come that night.
His dish sat full by the back step
and the porch light made the boards look bare
in a way I did not like.
I called for him by the hedge,
behind the shed,
near the road,
down past the place where the ground dipped
after rain.
Nothing.
I shook the food box.
Nothing.
It is odd how large a yard can get
when one small thing is not in it.
Every dark place becomes a thought.
Every sound becomes maybe.
He came back late, muddy and calm,
like he had just been out
on cat business
and did not care that I had nearly gone sick
thinking of ditches and dogs and wheels.
I picked him up.
He hated that.
I held him anyway.