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the walk

Her snout raced along the gravel walk, ferreting out smells of others

who came before like ancestors. Full, aromatic scent of beasts unknown

hankering for freedom, off leash.

Pausing for a whiff of possibility.

A stick.

Crippled by disease and wilting to the bite of anticipation, snaps

into pieces and thus desired no more. A fresh scent. Lunging forward

nails screeching through the path, “Heel” she said.

Obey. Now. For a moment.

But look, it’s the squirrel tree, long since abandoned

by the rodent racing upward. But unaware of desolation, she points. Waiting.

Accolades of the hunt. Praise.  Now walk.


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