Upon arriving
she approaches,
the guard dog of this great
home, a galaxy of stars
mixed with night.

The sun is crawling
toward dusk.
Shadows curl into
darkness between stones
stacked for centuries
at the gate:

“This is a private residence”

Juno circles,
her tail catches light,
whips it toward evening,
at Chateau de Flee
where souls hang
in rafters
in beams cracked by rain.

And Juno knows them all
as they promenade each
night, and never
tells her masters,

But plays among the living,
with the meekness of a child
who nears the table.
With the sleekness of
a stream that feeds the
grasses of Lac du Pont

She follows to the garden
to the stable,
to the roadway,
into the Chateau,
then the kitchen,
and each bedroom,
as a phantom,
as a flower,
as an infant,
as a dog.

Juno greets each guest
then speaks of them
to Madam Bach,
as Monsieur Bach is
listening,
then waits until they
leave the room
before devouring
the croissants.

Juno,
who knows cows,
as well as horses, geese,
and chicken,
who dreams of
subtle murder
when a pigeon touches
ground,

She greets us at the
gate,
the guard dog of
the Chateau,
and shimmies
with the movement of
a rain-excited lake.