No ceremony, no celebration
when we arrive, when we allow
the shroud of time to embrace
all fears and then dispel them.
We hang on the edge, hold
each breath until the next
turn of the sun. How could we
have known such peace exists
when we were chasing rabbits
for the sport of it, wasting time?
Ask the old dog in the shade
if he is satisfied with his magnificent
dreams, with his clever editing
now that he knows he’ll never return.
Who would we be without them?
drycrikjournal 
Nice one John. Dreams and memories, what could be better.
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I have more than one old hound buried under an old snag out there . . . And yes, I miss them more than words can say . . . I am always grateful that they died by my own hand without ever seeing the sadness with which I had to dispatch them . . .
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Pretty tough to accomplish.
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