My Hound

My hound aches for the finer things
For rabbit chases and greasy pots
Like I pine for a bowl of thick, fatty stew
On a crisp fall, morning
After a lonely, cramping hunt in the misty Tennessee dew.

My hound flies at the thought
Of river stomping, of cat growling
As I smile at a night’s potential tales
Over wide fires of fresh split oak
With old friends and wild children to keep it warm.

My hound beats in my chest
In a steady, waltzing rhythm
Considered as the dawn
By the evening’s dying embers
For a last long rest before the blaze of day yet thinks.