Their paws prick the bright
morning with purpose,
the dozen busy legs punch through
the surface drift of dreams, the
white-thread nights;
snuffling nostrils, wet with fresh
hope,
disregard the crumbs of surprised
brown earth,
quaking before their threatened
fall;
ears ripple on a lift of seeking
wind,
belly fur is feathered with dew,
deep eyes are pulled to hidden
promises.
Are there promises still for us?
(November,
1991)
