Moon sniffs out the paw prints
that punctuate the path,
frozen-broken canine cuneiform,

somewhere south of the howls
that issue from the kennels
slinking into shadow.

Sun blinks and sways
through woody lung vessels,
translating ground and sky,

rustling up some new language,
enabling this crossing here
like a skyborn belisha.

Gloom obliterates it all
as moon slides into supremacy,
silvering the carbon clouds.

In the kennels, dogs howl,
caged and far from home –
Paw language pads at my thoughts.