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:
Beautiful writing. It leaves me pulsing with light.
I love that moment of sunlight crossing a library rug: hope, delight, mystery.
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!
(o)
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