The grass skims beneath him
His pelt luminous.
The fur defying
A specific gravity
Of joy or fear.

Airborne he hurls
A tunnel of space ahead of him
Weight flows off his back like water
The air sprung from his coiling limbs.

And where he has yet to bounce
The grass parts-
The land accommodates his passage.

The pulse will croon
In its tight loops
As full and tense
As a pod
Until sap shoots
Into blossoms of flight-
Until a sky lifts its face
In walleyed rapture.

Eyes blind with ecstasy
Ears set back
I bound away from the tip
Of mad whiskers.
















(C) Eric Ashford July 08