There’s a woman who walks
the block with her greyhound — 

she strolls; he struts, a sinewed
supermodel sure to stun

passersby with his falcon’s
gaze and sculpted-marble body

built to spot, outsprint, and seize
small prey. One snatch and shake

is all it would take to kill
an unlucky rabbit or squirrel.

Yet, on a sun-drenched morning
in the middle of June, he stops

before a neighbor who kneels
in her garden, her cheeks smudged

with dirt and tears. She looks up,
grateful, eager to take his head

in her hands. As she rubs his ears,
the dog emits a gentle whine,

offering some measure of animal
comfort, the softness of leaning in.