most winter mornings
i see the prints in the new snow

pursing up and down the street
and around our house

always busy
always following

some scent impulse curiosity
always returning

to the dark mystery
of the mountains

once                                                 once
when i couldn’t sleep                   snowshoeing
i looked                                           up the mountains
out the predawn window            it came bursting out
and saw it                                       of the forest
walking up the street                    and into the deep snow
without a care                                just before me
in the world                                    

                                                         it looked
                                                         at me
                                                         turned away
                                                         and quickly bound
                                                         up the trail
                                                         all bright flamed tail
                                                         and fun