Little Thunder in the Leaves

No pedigree pomp,

no polished leash-pageant airs—

just dirt underfoot

and the scent of squirrel in the wind.

The Feist doesn’t bark to talk.

It barks to warn,

to chase,

to climb a tree with its voice

before its paws can follow.

Small enough to tuck under your arm,

but you'd need both hands

to hold its wild heart.

Its tail is a metronome for urgency,

ticking toward the next rustle.

Eyes like shotguns—

aimed and locked.

It doesn’t wait for orders.

It listens to instinct

and to the rustle behind the brush pile.

Somewhere in a backwoods holler,

a Feist zigzags across roots and memory,

hunting things we’ve long forgotten

how to chase.