thick folds of skin slide forward to cover her eyes.

Long ears
drag the ground, swinging in time with each step

and the
scent of one just passed spirals up the length

of her nose.  Hard upon the trail of one she cannot see,

led by scent
(also unseen), she bumps against old tree stumps

the hard
head knocking with the force of her longing.

In the
straightaways it’s a forward rush

until the
trail turns and pursuit turns to pause, discerning,

then she is
off again, certain in her blindness. 

It is
neither day nor night, only Now

with the
scent of God fresh all around.

She is the
hound who hunts, everywhere

a fresh
trail, every chase an arrival.

Photo credit HERE. 

This post is linked with Unforced Rhythms.

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