I hear the howl of dogs baying in woods that are not
woods, hunting for fox or cat or coyote, frustrated and their inability to
catch, woods that are not woods, running along a ridge behind my house where
foxes might come, cats certainly, and the always crafty coyotes I hear but never
see. I live my life like a coyote, keeping still when the dogs are near, yet
unable to resist calling out when they are afar, hiding in a hollowed log, or
under a pile of stones, too crafty to be easily caught, yet scared to death I
will be, hoping that the dogs that howl in the woods that are not woods will
seek out the fox or cat, as more of their kind reside in this neck of the
woods, less likely than I, perhaps too foolish to realize just how easily it is
to get caught in the jaws of the hounds, who howl in woods that are woods,
their sound echoing, when in fact these hounds are so much nearer than we might
believe.
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