Her heart is an

unpolished jewel,

loosed upon the soft meadow,

she yearns for her dear friend,

her cousin,

her spirit mother,  the old girl wolf.

When the Divine Young Dog

flies across the meadow,

under barbed wire fences,

through fence posts,

running freely, hopping with

excitement and joy,

ten thousand bugs rise

into the air,

hundreds of chipmunks squeak

in alarm and dive for their holes,

scores of rabbits melt into the ground

silently, completely,

the meadow grass laughs and trembles

and bends for  her,

the deer stare in alarm and disbelief,

and then vanish into the woods.

Against the daisies and Queen Anne’s Lace,

and her great blanket of meadow grass,

The Divine Young Dog,

is a flash, a blur,

an explosion of instinct,

she is living the life,

she was meant to live,

in the place,

she was meant,

to live it.