The hunt

almost as if she were under a gun barrel— shots in some distance cracking like apples on rocks.

her nose perching high and her legs arched and sunken in grass in the manner of ducks going hell underwater. she leaps over barriers and the wind moves her forward—you see it lap downward and scale out like waves. trees shake constantly but the lawns flip low and go up, careful as hair in a mirror. the breed was made

apparently as a lapdog, but she dives all the same. all joy and barking at birds which take off, casually and gloriously unalarmed.

DS Maolalai