The concrete heartbeat flutters,
in warm autumn night air.
It is slow excitement filled with the song call of **** and vinegar pups,
the calm saunter of seasoned members,
and the hum of steel fume boxes traversing the veins.
Through a ***** glass of rye I observe.
From habitat to watering hole they glide,
up and down the darkened cobble hills
hand in hand,
smiling, laughing,
lonely;
awakened from a weeks long slumber,
all prowl and prance to eat or dance or find
that one time mate.
Traveling in packs or trudging stag,
all garbed to beg, be it by flashing light or a slit of leg,
that their hallowed ritual hikes will grant them what they desire most;
a forgotten night to always be remembered.