my own dog
the car stops.
two legs step down.
four legs jump down.
feet (& paws) on the ground.
relief.
the leash comes off.
freedom!
nose in the air, he runs down the sandy beach,
further & further
until
she can fit him
on her index finger.
he looks different somehow.
head
higher.
back
straighter.
when he finally returns,
when panic has made her voice
hoarse,
her mind
dizzy,
she hugs him in relief.
what were you doing?
i was pretending i was my own dog.
He was showing you how to BE a dog.
You made me think of a moment at the beach yesterday, when he was doing something similar, and I stopped him before he could get too far. It made me think that after 12 years, I still haven’t gotten it. (“It” isn’t letting him run free, exactly, but I don’t have the words to say what I mean.) Thank you for this.
Sometimes the ability to DO is more important than the DOING.
now why such beauty always brings tears to my eyes?
i love your words.
and jerry…
jerry always gets it doesn’t he.
i’ve missed his comments. glad he’s back.
elizabeth…
no words for your soul really.
well yes. of course.
it’s a poet’s soul.
Ah, Tammy. I cry at beauty daily. So glad to know I am not alone. From one poetic soul to another, xoxoxo.
Ahhhhhhh…to be a dog on a beach. What could be better?