Op/Ed

Poetry: Cynanthropic Daze

We have all become our dogs it seems,
Stirring at first light
To these Groundhog Day mornings,
All is the same and all is different
So eager for that first walk
The chance of possibility,
We sniff the fecund smells
Of earth, lichen
Moss,
We give tree-distance to the squirrel
And air rights to the hawk,
 
Then to the car,
A ride! I call shotgun,
The window cracked open
Just the enough to
Moisten our mature noses,
Take in a piece of wind,
And the still fallow fields,
 
And then we return home, There it is:
The couch,
Where we can circle our
Perfect spot, to stretch,
To dream perhaps
Of blissful playdates,
And under our
Breaths,
Bark at the
Baleful world
 
— Peter Bruno
Weybridge

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