Airborne,
skimming over spears of grass,
defying the cark of gravity,
springing through joy and fear.
He throws weight from his back,
rip-tides race coiling flesh.
Hatchets of air hurl a tunnel of space ahead of him.
Where he has yet to bounce,
winds parts,
the earth accommodates his passage- giving way.
The heart waits for such moments,
a high pulsing blood,
the weightless leap pushing through a wall eyed rapture.
Together we bound from his mad whiskers. a Running Hare