The Hunt of the Shadow Dog

The morning stretched across the grass,

a stage of light where shadows pass.

Small paws beat quick upon the ground,

as Tobi spun to chase what’s bound.

At first, he startled—eyes gone wide,

a darker twin stayed at his side.

He leapt away, yet still it clung,

a silent rival, black and young.

With bounding steps, he stamped in place,

a grin of wonder on his face.

The phantom danced, it slipped, it stayed,

a hunt that never could be swayed.

He bent to bite—his teeth met air,

yet triumph lit his puppy stare.

Around in circles, leaps, and springs,

a hunter chasing weightless things.

What is the hunt but joy and trial,

the chase itself, the fleeting smile?

To capture?—maybe. Miss?—perhaps.

But life still blooms in misfit gaps.

For in the grasp of what eludes,

we learn the rhythm that concludes:

that beauty lives not in the caught,

but in the seeking, un-begot.

And Tobi, dancing, swift and free,

taught shadows turn to melody.

A song of paws, of leaps, of cheer—

the hunted thing is wonder, near.

So chase the dream, though it may flee,

the shadow knows eternity.

The joy is not to make it stay,

but in the hunt that lights the day.