October 26 2007

Text By Greg Fallis

She glides along the feathered dunes as lightly as windblown leaves, buoyed by the pure physical joy of running. The speed of young dogs is barely constrained by the limits of their bodies; at any moment you half-expect them to run so fast and free they'll leave their bodies behind.

If dogs believed in prayer, running would be a canine doxology. A hymn sung by the legs and lungs whose meter is determined by the beat of paw against ground. It is an acknowledgment of the gift given by the gods of dogs, a gift they gladly share by the simple act of running. We, watching them, are also uplifted.

If the prayers of dogs were answered, bones would rain from the sky and the land would be abundant with things to be chased and almost caught.