My dog,
Little Running Horse,
does not need a sweater
this morning like I do. 
I'll see my breath soon.

She does not need running shoes either
or words to tell me how much she loves.

We race-walk through the meadow,
glowing pink, orange and brown,
streaked with gray clouds laying down,
waking before our eyes.

She is black lightening against the light of dawn.
Her head and tail high; I hate to remind her
I am in charge, but I do, pulling her back
from exuberance.

She smells snow in September.
No one, canine or human,
dead or alive, adores nature
more than she.