I saw the best dog of my generation
flash by the kitchen, snapping at flies.
White-furred and -plumed, ears back, he hurtled
silently through summer air against
the window where they looped and buzzed; fell flat.
Recovered then, fangs bared, and sprang again.
He never caught one, but in August light
reconstitutes himself -- black lips
drawn, dark eyes narrowed in his predatory smile,
a lithe torpedo launched at targets out of reach.
I like to think we joined beneath the skin:
wolf brothers strung out loosely in a hunting line
where flies were sideshows, and the surge towards
a beyond was what electrified.
Writer's Digest 10th National Poetry Competition (2015); first published in Falcons (2020)