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 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.

If you are foraging an opening into our world,

prying an edge we think is seamed shut,

could you catch our long-tailed, big-toothed, shaggy marauders 

venturing into your domain, when curbside bins are empty?

Soon you may be scarce again.

Through withdrawal or attrition,

your howl silenced, at our hand.

Telemetry is tracking you, 

An ear-tag guarantees your future.

Did you notice? You were not suppose to mind.