Atavism II

Having picked up the scent too
my dog stalks the virus
swift as lymphocytes.
At night she looks to my mother
as if to say this is my shift
I will not stray.
She runs in her dreams
in fitful pants and dashes.
She will hunt this marauder
to ground, to icy wastes if she must.
In the morning her dark eyes
are trained on the secrets of the day.
Where we have travelled,
muzzle by cheek,
if asked, she would not say.