Housebroken

The year has turned,
light begins to stretch the day,
snow ages under its crust, hope
feels its sap rising.
Wide fields glitter, pages signed
by rabbits and foxes, tree branches
sparkle with ice, I stand at the
window and appraise the view.
In my thoughts I wear thick fur,
slink on padded paws, my long
tongue slides over teeth hungry
for the kill. I smell blood.
But I stand inside the window
housebroken by phone and desk.
Loping across the snow
my neighbor’s dog finds a trail,
my excitement runs with him.
He knows what he is meant for.
My instincts raise a leg at the
signs at every crossroad.