At dawn, the dog sits by the unlatched gate,
Ears tuned to roads that promise nothing.
He follows shadows that smell like yesterday,
Circles back, loyal to an empty place.
Food is eaten, sleep arrives but lightly,
As if leaving room for a name unsaid.
Some instincts don’t hunt or flee,
They wait, believing someone will return.
Jan 25
Jan 25, 2026 at 7:07 AM UTC
At dawn, the dog sits by the unlatched gate,
Ears tuned to roads that promise nothing.
He follows shadows that smell like yesterday,
Circles back, loyal to an empty place.
Food is eaten, sleep arrives but lightly,
As if leaving room for a name unsaid.
Some instincts don’t hunt or flee,
They wait, believing someone will return.
