Scrape, scrape, scratch, scrape.
 He’s scratching the floor
around his food bowl again.
Scrape, scratch, scratch, scrape.
A million generations
at the end of his paw.
Scratch, scrape, scrape, scratch.
Concealing the carcasses
of goats and gazelles.

Run, run, kick, run.
Sturdy men running
with one goal in mind.
Run, run, run, kick.
Forty-five minutes and
the ball goes in the net.
Run, jump, shout, hug.
Tired legs rejoicing that
the mastodon is down.