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and at the idea of hounds, a panting mass,
a school of dumb fish, safety in numbers,
their ears flapping like leathery leaves
just before the storm breaks, their high
voices chorusing woods and fields, ringing
off the stone walls she runs beside, light
and fleet, silent as new snow falling through
the early dark, the brush of her tail a shadow
they won’t see, their cacophony echoing,
they of the loose jowls and flying saliva,
the bumping into each other that slows
everyone down, she slips briefly into a brook
to mask her scent and then up the farther bank.
If you want to go fast, go alone, and laughing.
Copyright 2019 Molly Fisk