Summers At Fryman Canyon Will Always Miss You

Summers At Fryman Canyon Will Always Miss You

By: Tyler Ross 

I said bye to a curly, black-haired dog today.

It laid in the shade struggling for air.

It’s confused and lack of urgent guardians,

gathered around 

with strangers on a Sunday morning hike

up against a fence 

by its side, 

while the mother petted it slowly.
They said it overheated,

but to me they didn’t seem too defeated,

by this saddening situation.

A member of their family,

lie motionless

and they just squatted around, hands to their heads.

Maybe there wasn’t anything they could do,

because a hiker passing had a grim tongue

reassuring to the point, this was the end.

Or maybe,

it was an old dog and death is just a part of life.

Either way, my thoughts were with the dog that day.

As we finished our hike,

back the way we started,

we crossed the family once again.

This time, the dog was in the father’s arms,

lifeless.

Sorrow surrounded that family,

as they headed for their car - every hiker was aware.

Yet I refused to believe it was dead.

We carried on that day back home,

but in my mind, 

that dog was racing around back at its home

having another shot at life.
I’m having trouble sleeping tonight.

Trepidation

Trepidation
By: Tyler Ross

Uncomfortably still,
I lay stiff and deteriorated 

with tightened muscles,
fighting 

the darkness seeping inside my brain, 

as I stressfully mumble out, 

“I don’t want to die. 

I don’t want to die.” 

Minutes later, 

the hospital becomes blanketed with black. 

Like anesthesia and sleep, 

my lungs tread life one last time 

as my last exhale is filled with fear 

and nothingness. 

Earth’s beings hold the proof, 

the proof I existed.