Wednesday, August 12, 2015


                The ritual of our morning dictates first
                The dogs be taken out to roam the yard
                To “do their stuff” and get themselves immersed
                 In chasing squirrels, with whom they’ve always sparred.

                The dogs will bark; the squirrels will nag and bray
                From half-way up the trunk of an oak tree,
                Taunting the mutts who hold them all at bay:
                It’s hard so say whose is the greater glee.

                Eventually, the ruckus will subside
                And, hoping to be fed, the dogs come in,
                Each with an adventure to confide
                But happy to be done with all that din.

                    The next thing to look forward to’s a walk
                    With other hapless critters they can stalk.