Whatever chills your warm-
blooded heart,
stiffens the lithe little
shadow of your soul,
I have caught you
acting bold
now and again on our
walks around town—
as if you cannot
help but follow
the lead of your
misbehaving nose;
as if bravery,
for you, were less a compulsion
than an instinct—
a default rather than a goal.
As if, though
many bright and strongly-scented
leaves adorn the ground,
you somehow prefer
to gaze into trees—
to lift your snout
and search up, and over, and out
instead of down.
