Hush, I smell the springtime dogs approaching
And hear the ladies of their house, wrapping daughters'
Braids with ribbons, humming softly on the steps.
They trail down to you and me, two foxes gazing.
But don't fear little one, red and barely moving;
We'll dye our tails the color of fog, then merge with mist.
While all about us, shouting, drooling, the springtime dogs
Will hunt lost scents for masters returning discontented
(Without a me, without a you) to ladies of their house,
Slicing bloody breasts, and washing in their dew.
Nathan Woods, editor/overlord