He springs across thickets
Wounded, in one of his slender feet
This hound that has society
Shooing him on repeat
The human scent is his alarm
He darts off our treads
Bewitched by hunger and desire
His gaze fixed upon our breads
No more nimble, his feet ache
And yet this scavenger excavates
An architect of the three-feet balance
How goes his day, I contemplate
God found a new room to stay
In this quadrupedal body that lay
And every hunt; an offering
Made righteously day by day
-K.G.
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