Saturday, June 08, 2013

Hound of June

Dayrise: the high vault of June light, casting noon glints and reflections into the most sheltered places. The whole world is pulsing with light.

I breathe – twice – three times. Vanish, and appear again. A little insubstantial, but not bad. Real enough to do the work I have to do.

I bow my head, let the wind ruffle my fur and tick my ears: then stretch, arch my back, let my hindquarters rise; and I feel each glistening bead on my vertebral necklace shift into its sweet spot. I stand and sniff the air. Dozens of stories come from the windward country. Only a few will have to do with me, though. I rub my snout with one paw and sniff again.

That smell. Musk and a hint of blood; paper dust hanging in the bar of sunlight that slips between blinds, and crosses a library rug. That's what concerns me today.

I run. Run, run, and run, following that signature. One more day, alive and in the sun.

4 comments:

Rita said...

Beautiful writing. It leaves me pulsing with light.

Christi Krug said...

I love that moment of sunlight crossing a library rug: hope, delight, mystery.

Peter said...

Better is a live dog than a dead lion, as one of them wisdom books saith.

("A little insubstantial, but not bad. Real enough to do the work I have to do." Nice!

mm said...

(o)