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An Ode to Hunting Dogs
The rolling, hollow, baying sounds cascading from the fen,
'cause there's a bobcat up a tree and the dogs are loose again.
The cat suddenly settles, and the hunting pack goes quiet.
A man whistles to call them, but these rowdy dogs won't buy it.
Like men in a private club, they quietly wait by the tree.
The cat observes his options, wondering how he will get free.
A twig snaps, there's movement. and the dogs return to full bay.
The cat jumps down into the marsh, and finally gets away.
Copyright ©
Hilda Greenhough
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