The moon rises, blank as paper,
a puzzle too far for small minds.
Dogs bark at the foreign sky,
their voices tethered to simple truths.
They bark at shadows without breath,
at rustling leaves spun by wind,
at the creeping shapes of dusk
all the unspoken, felt in their chests.
I’ve been that noise, have you?
Loud against what feels vast, unknown,
snarling at questions too big—
like why love sometimes runs away.
Or why silence can feel so sharp,
why hands let go, though they cling.
Dogs bark, not knowing to trust,
not realizing the sun will return.