Fetch balls and sticks capture my attention seconds at a time. Fetch, I don't think so. Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who's, oh joy, actually scared. Sniff the wind, then I'm off again,. Mock, pom, ditch, residue of any thrillingly dead thing. And you, either you're sunk in the past, half of our walk, thinking of what you never can bring back, or else you're off in some fog concerning tomorrow. Is that what you call it? My work to unsnare times warp, and wolf, retrieving my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark, a zen master's bronze

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