The fur blurr enough slow to know it’s herthat a foot or maybe a wild earshe turns the cornerripping sod, leaving a heap to run throughas she comes leaping through the underbrushor meadow of our yardmaking sounds of happiness and wishing of being a carto vroom down those highways of pavement,tail spinning, she turns the next cornerleaping, becoming a bird for one fleeting momentbefore landing with a plop on the groundas she skids to a stopfinally over with her own song, Roo’s song,of noiseless pleasure.