The dogs want to run.

I can hear them gnawing at each other in the backyard.

The bigger one tolerates the little one.

The little one is keen to impress.

They tussle and chew.

They topple rakes and spades,

and upturn potplants,

spilling brown ferns and grey soil.

It’s blowing a gale out there.

Soft and straight black hair parts in circulars waves,

A short white and grey coat binds rib and muscle.

Teeth flash and tails rotate like bent levers

And the house is old so she creaks,

The windows chink when she moves.

The dogs jolt into momentary anticipation,

watch the windows with round browns and oval greys,

and wink away flitting contemplation.

Then latch on to each other once again.


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