sheared ovenbird His fur grew all winter until it was as thick as the fleece of a Corriedale ewe. When I finally took clippers to the dense thickets of curls and mats I removed a pelt that lay on the floor like a shadow twin, an inert copy of my dog’s body that I half expected to draw breath and walk away. Freed from the encumbrance of his felted coat he seemed amazed at the lightness of his limbs. I think he believed he could float away, and he bowed deeply in reverence to the desire to play, and he pulled every toy from the bin by his bed, and ran circles around the house, bounding like a puppy, astonished to be so free. Life is a boiled wool overcoat that falls to my ankles, sometimes a comfort against the chill, sometimes a flea infested burden that hangs heavy from my stooped shoulders. There are days when I want to cut it away with double bow shears, so I can leave what’s dead behind. How small am I beneath the stifling weight of days that pill and stretch and grow heavy with the salt of sweat and tears? How pink is my skin that rarely sees the light? I want to be naked and known, to dip my head and press my body to the ground, eyes raised in invitation. We could run so fast, so far. We could fly. 260305 what's it to you? who go blather from