The dogs are chasing squirrels,
attentive heads inclined skyward
at the slightest rustle of leaves.
Their company keeps -- with
all the familiarity of that one
box of cereal present in the cupboard
when you first moved in.
They exist as they have always existed:
flowing fur coarsing to and fro
along fenced-in boundaries.
It's a well-settled path they walk
from tree to gate to flower bed.
Lay down with me in unnatural green,
the water hemorrhage acceptable
if we let the sprinkler turn on all around us
and laugh off wet socks and underwear later.
They don't howl at the moon
the way we do: self-conscious and afraid,
but they aren't allowed to eat at the table,
read magazines,
or preen before the lies mirrors tell.
What is there to let out?
Reflections on the day?
Stories about squirrels?
New scents on the wind?
More running ensues.
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