The hound will leap at the sounding bell,
And spin in the dirt till the sun goes down.
He doesn't care if he stumbles or fell,
Or looks like a fool to the rest of the town.
To live is to move, to pant, and to chase,
To throw your whole heart at the spinning room,
To embrace the sweat and the breathless pace,
And dance right out of the quiet gloom.
The feline sits on the windowsill high,
Unblinking and still as a carved stone queen.
She measures the arc of the bird in the sky,
And parses the truths of the spaces between.
She knows that the dancer is blind to the snare,
That fools rush in where the shadows creep.
She finds her joy in the quiet air,
And the secrets the loud ones fail to keep.
The dancer might mock the watcher's cold stare,
Calling it fear or a life unlived.
The watcher might scoff at the dancer's flair,
Seeing a mind that is frayed and sieved.
But look at the world in its chaotic spin;
It demands the runner to chart the unknown,
Yet requires the silent to take it all in,
To map out the earth where the seeds are sown.
We carry them both in the human frame,
The urge to perform and the need to perceive.
To play only one is a dangerous game,
And a half-written truth that we shouldn't believe.
So dance when the music ignites your soul,
And leap with the dogs in the summer heat.
But know when to stop and observe the whole,
With the quiet grace of the cat's retreat.