Fleet of foot through frosty field he flies,
All slender, sleek and silky this fine hound,
And with his reddish coat he’s stately gowned,
Contrasts with somber grays the cloud filled skies,
The race is on toward his avian prize,
His nose in rapid movement near the ground,
The ears a constant sensor hears a sound,
As he besets to point the prey that shies,
Our daily walks along the river run,
Are not for pheasant, dove or coveyed quail,
What fonder way to find the morning’s start,
To see his joy with every dawning sun,
As we traverse together on this trail,
This friend and I have found a common heart.
Peter Lowell Paulson
March 21, 2011
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