Taylor Graham Raising Dead Winter Morning cold-drill to the bone. My puppy says “let's go!” Before my fingers on the long-line thaw, we're past the soccer field. My pup is fueled up, flying! Pulling me along, up the shortcut into woods, we hit the dirt-bike trail (47 humps & dips in a hundred yards). She won't break stride except to nudge a bedroll stashed behind a tree — fresh human scent! Up to the rodeo grounds, around the horse arena — if I could bottle this lightning puppy heartbeat; if I could sell it, I'd be rich. The little zoo; three wolves watching us through fence; my pup doesn't flinch, she's wild & focused, she's on-trail. A peacock plumes its iridescent eyes. We keep on running. And here's our quarry, Kim, sitting on a bench. I'm out of breath but energized, revived - as good as rich. The sun's gold coin shines tiny, high and cold.

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