Dust 'cross the ground
in the high noon
calls every boot heel
and tippy toe.

Slap. Clap.
Give it a little stomp.

Plumes in the air
comprised of motes
of hope from little feet
give a high rise.

Slap. Clap.
Give it try.

Some of the fun
in being misfit
is never
fighting
for alone time,
huh?

But.

Wolves need wolves
when the shepherds
turn to masters, turn
the sheep into chattel.

Sheep are sheep
for innocence
of sin, not err,
purity from malice.