Rocky snaps at dragonflies
who find warmth on blacktop.
Then we meander to the hayfield,
where grasses rustle in June wind
and my dog, tail wagging,
paws prancing, pulls the leash.
My gait wide, awkward,
my mouth, open, laughing.
He pulls me like an Alaskan sled.
We run.

Night is a repose
from daylight scrap scurries,
heavy loads carried
over trap-laden trails;

moonlight is a firefly
spotlight, leaving the rest
of us in obscurity,

free to sort
acquisitions gathered
at our queen’s will

for the collective
survival of our
unborn.