The dog sleeps under the table at my feet
the shape of parenthesis from a heavy handed writer.
Hardly still, even at this moment,
his feet paw at the air in short strokes,
and his muzzle draws back to show his teeth
to his pursuers,
whimpers as sotto voce muezzin to the the quarry--
get ready, prepare, now is the time.

I follow suit,
close my eyes and see (he, also sleeping)
the chase (in his own separately dreaming)
his profile, running,
spine tracing the arcs of sine curve
in pursuit of all that dogs dream.