He dreams as though in a run,
chasing rabbits in the sun.
His tiny tail thumps, as though he greets
someone unseen at the door.
Free from leashes and the fists of kids,
he is left to his own devices.
The kitchen is his, and he has hands.
An endless supply of shoes,
a fire hydrant in the backyard,
his own personal set of bones.
People come willingly to his words,
and when he drives they drip
their tongues from the windows.
There is no unknown like his unknown,
roaming a world of his choosing,
where each air is a new perfume
for his nose to explore
and taste is an adventure,
with opportunities at every garbage can.
Barking, he escapes the world of commands,
tumbles through fields of obedient plants
into the bright arms of day,
the vast young landscape of glory.

Chris Wood, November 2000