A familiar song plays,

returning me to a pleasant

memory

in time, where my dog sat

in the passenger seat

of my old stick shift

convertible—a soft top

VW Cabrio

as the Vermont backroads

beckoned us.

I leashed her,

she leaped inside,

I turned the key,

and gone.

The wind in our hair,

sunshine above,

trees, mountains,

life and the secluded pond

awaited.

She sat

buckled into the seat,

I bought 2 twenty-four

ounce beers,

stuck them in the

center console.

I set my playlist,

opened both beers,

drained half of one,

she leaned over

licked my face,

then turned to look

at the passing scenery.

At the pond,

The lawn manicured

around a picnic table,

with a chain across

the entrance,

suggesting no entry,

but it was she

who discovered that

place one day,

so we went there,

with every opportunity

to get away,

for a quiet hour

of sanity.