I am not a Dog

I hear you early, morning,

when I am reading and trying

to write about the wildness so distant to me now.

I hear you trickster—chattering, signaling.

You have seized upon the avenue of encroachment

left by our retreat into urban lives.

Along the edge you travel,

You do not blink, but skulk,

your sacred manner Twain’s living allegory of Want.