Trying not to be seen

It’s cold out

In the morning

Air

No sign of traffic

Not that I care

The fields are

Empty and covered

In drew glistening

In the moonlight

The dogs of running

Caught sight of a hair

Out of sight now

Without a care

I hear his panting

And heavy breathing

Through nose

Against grass rustles

With little toes

The hairs just playing

His usual game

Lets Simba close

Then does the same

Turns and sprints the

Other way under a fence

Just out of harm’s way

It’s cold out

But such fun to be

Alive

Fingers frozen having

For breath to strive

Every inhalation a

Reminder of being

Of finding those things

That are seldom seen

Angles playing in fields

Of green keeping watch

Trying not to be seen

It’s cold out