At first the dog was jumping at the door like a jackrabbit;

from a distance it was a deer

until the children ran circles around each other inside,

finding one pair of camouflaged-pattern binoculars—

quickly focused and pointed directly to the right of the red-faced tree

but in the corn field, two o’clock.

And now it is a coyote

so we call the cats inside and hold the dog back by his collar.

The children line up at the head of the family room window one two three

little bottoms stilled by the prospect of anything other than corn and tractors

in the massive stretch of land

usually bleak, save the shadows of the clouds

and the tarn of reflection for setting suns.

Soon we lose sight of the wild, wire-haired dog

but notice the slackened cars on the road—

almost stopped absolutely, headlights exploding across the yellow lines

in observance of the little things that stir the blood and make good dreams

out here in the country.