Dog Running Spring
How thin are master’s wishes
when he leaves the leather leash behind!
How every rutty road opens into woods
pungent with smells a human couldn’t fit
into the nooks of his narrow nose.
How slow two booted feet climb the hill
when four feathered legs can catch a cloud
on the fly. How soft the cry of master,
so far behind, lamenting that he can’t
catch April; that spring won’t bide.
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