I can’t think of anything more beautiful
than waking in the morning to pups whining
their yips of sound, that knows precisely
how to enter the very pores of my skin,
as I walk to the kitchen where we keep
their pink and blue retractable leashes.

They hear the drawer open and yip louder
at the morning silence; as soon as I open
their pen they burst with excitement, my legs
clawed by their jumping, the hardwood floors
emitting a sound like the fastest tap dancers
of the world, moving with passion, for the
morning, its new beginning, its birds, all of its
beautiful things. They can hardly stand still
for me to latch their leashes.

And after much effort, and their continual
dancing, I am finally able to swing open the
backdoor toward the sidewalk where they run,
and dance, and smell fresh grass as I am
fascinated by them, and the passing streetcar
ahead, where eventually Dichter shimmies.

And as quiet as five a.m., as miraculous as a
moth landing, he stops all frolic to take heed,
to give reverence, to push his little
mocha of nose into the pink blossom of zinnia,
and into the blossom of blue daze, that is so,
so stunning to him.