Member Poem

Their paws run lightly through the snow;
    my boots create deep craters.
Like sunshine their eight dog feet flow.
    My trotters are invaders

disfiguring the frosty meadow.
    While tearing across that sheet,
their paws are plainly not larghetto.
    Not only are they fleet,

they hardly make a dent or print;
    the icy snow stands flawless.
As I trudge toward the sun and squint,
    my dogs look like they’re pawless;

they look like they have wings instead,
    resembling wingèd beagles.
If they teemed up to pull my sled
    we’d climb the sky like sea gulls.

And now the dogs are flying. Yes!
    They really are. They are!
Where they are headed I can’t guess
    (perhaps to a distant star).

Regardless of their destination,
    they will return, I ken —
they know where I keep the Ken-L Ration.
    The question, though, is: when?

When will those mutts come back to me?
    When their stomachs start to rumble.
Although they think right now they’re free,
    their maws will keep them humble.