Black and white, furry mess, alerting all to her toughness,
three octaves too high, tensely rearing for retreat.
Five-pound Pixie makes her way into the day. Anxiety.
Leaves from fall blow around her and she is paralyzed
by fear of a storm that is the breeze of a March day.
Birds are flying now, flying low, and Pixie sees B-52’s.
I am who she is as we tear ourselves from winter into new life.
I am fearful of all that moves, especially beings who fly disguised.
She has Harry, Gracie, Buddy, and even Daisy, bitchy Daisy,
sibling pups who find her obnoxious but who would save her.
My siblings don’t protect, they wait for my barking and biting.
Pixie and I fear that we will not survive the next rip at our hearts.
She can hide behind a sibling. She is full of loving outlets.
Perhaps a human will hold her carefully. I need outlets.
stillfugue 