Rain the day before, a wet ground
and the smell of Mom’s daylilies
under my window. I wake to our dog
barking, loud, frustrated. I tell myself,
utility truck. Slide out of bed,
toward the kitchen, where the microwave
buzzes, the food left inside. I see no truck,
no one checking the meter.
Her car is still in the driveway.
Then I see them, walking toward the woods:
my sister and a man in head-to-toe camo. I tell myself,
it’s _______, her boyfriend. You ask
if I have regrets: well, my first was to believe
our woods were safe, and the second
was to believe God created them so.