Yellow sweatered woman, I saw you before you started crying. You were walking up the street, toward town. I was on my way back from the trails along the cliff, from looking at the three sandstone sisters. You held the leash of a wrinkle-faced dog, and you had brown shoes and crooked legs and gray hair that met your shoulders. You were small and slightly hunched and your dog seemed to know that you couldn’t walk fast, although sometimes he would pull, ever so gently, on his ropey leash, his white paws speeding up into a trot. He saw me and halted protectively in front of you. Your yellow sweater, gray woolen skirt.