Stop! Stop! I am still here. Walk now. Walk again,
for the hunt burns keen
Touch my ears and know
the wind’s rise, my hackled-back bristling.
Constant vigilance
Bark first, whine after . . .
It is Earth’s wish, not mine — my little death is not yours;
not yet. You live long two-legs, but too often poorly.
Yet the rich splendor of yonder pine grove covets and stirs.