Hop-skipping through reptilian roots
your helicopter tail brushes gathered mizzle
from drooping ferns. An unintentional paw expels
puffs of tan powder from moss-nestled fungi.
You are wearing a wide grin – I can tell
from up here, in my clouded concerns –
nosing ecstatically,
body tingling from snap of twig
and muffled wing-beat.
A scramble,
a hurdling, ducking beeline
obscured by brushwood
tongue lolling about on your return
having caught nothing
and everything
in the chase.