He sneaks up on his prey
In the yard.
Tail wagging.
It has fallen during the storm
And now lies
Unnoticing of the danger
Lurking behind.
Without warning,
My golden retriever
Poodle
Beaver (?) mix
Hurls himself at the unsuspecting
Branch
And proceeds to
Tear it into pieces.
His ferocity knows
No bounds until
The branch lies in
Tiny fragments of
Its former self.
Then he looks to me
As if to say,
“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”