The fur blurr enough slow to know it’s her
that a foot or maybe a wild ear
she turns the corner
ripping sod, leaving a heap to run through
as she comes leaping through the underbrush
or meadow of our yard
making sounds of happiness and wishing of being a car
to vroom down those highways of pavement,
tail spinning, she turns the next corner
leaping, becoming a bird for one fleeting moment
before landing with a plop on the ground
as she skids to a stop
finally over with her own song, Roo’s song,
of noiseless pleasure.