I ask you what it means to return, as you cross the field, mouth empty, eyes bright as loose nickels. When I first came back to my hometown my mother told me, “Did you know there is a dog park now?” We drove around in circles until we finally found a metal fence around where the old ice rink used to be. There, you tumbled across field, panting as I followed you. Today there is another dog and the owner says to me “he never brings the ball back to me—he always runs away with it,” and, forgive me, I talk about you, saying “mine is the opposite, he comes back to me but leaves the ball.” I don’t say how much I appreciate your methods— the way you follow impulse past the object. I want to be more like you. I want to see the ground as nothing more than our vessel. Let’s not ever play fetch then— let’s throw to grass and dirt and the fresh wild violets and return to each other like only bodies can.