Foolish legs flying

Past towering oaks we’d sprint, my dog when I was ten

foolish legs flying up muddy trails then.

Tethered to beast on leather leash, a hundred pounds of dog

just as fast as me, the fool.

An Irish Setter, mud and drool, we’d race to the pond and bog. At speed in his glory, russet fire in the wind.

One day he started sprinting for no reason, so I thought, but then I saw the squirrel, just asking to get caught.

And to the left, at speed he broke, the rodent fled to a nearby oak. I tried to stop, but I broke right, the leash stuck firm so I took flight.

And so physics did their bit,

and so the oak tree I did hit.

The rodent laughed as he scampered up, the flying boy and his earthbound pup.

So I lay dazed, yet nothing broke, the dog was barking up the oak.

I laughed at the squirrel, and he laughed back, at the flying boy oak tree attack.

So we walked home as it got dark, another day spent in the park.

A decade later, his legs turned weak, his dog days ended one Winter bleak.

I still remember our travails, of flying and crashing and other tales.