A stray

She was moving beyond the sound of his voice, coming ever closer until she passed so close he could have reached out and touched her. It was not a dream; he was not asleep, “She is real, I saw her,” he would tell his father who did not laugh or argue or cry, at least not until the boy had calmed down and could see things as they are: it had been a dog, just a stray dog except this one was scarred and limping, though proud in the lift of its head and radiant in the storm. He too had seen her; she was moving on to some other place and time.