my brown dog sniffs air like snuff
he spots a streak of black and white.
He cocks his ears to listen to a symphony of wrens
chit chatting from branches
he studies cherry blossoms flutter.
And I call him, but he does not notice
the change of tone in my voice
he does not turn his head and acknowledge
that I am the one who feeds him
that I am the one who throws his favourite ball
He runs into the distance,
the mountains shadowing him
the tall white grass his sky
and the cold crystal stream
his drinking bowl.