[Trevor Conway]

So slight
it might be fought off with ease
if only it didn’t come in numbers,
but two dozen gather
and somehow vote for action –
a foray to allay their hunger.

A pittance of energy is all they need
to carry them after panting prey
lumbering all its stomachy weight.

They grasp at a dipping rump,
the hairy tip of a frantic tail,
enduring through the kind of pursuit
where other species wane.

Between these dogs,
there is understanding
that each has a subtle role
moulded by its proven talent:
to chase behind or snap from the side,
to lock jaws on tired muscle
when the time arrives.

There’s little method in the final act:
the breathy beast staggers to a halt,
and soon, it’s torn to a writhing mess
of pain and fear,
disorientated –
no quick end of asphyxiation.

And yet, this dog
is mostly docile,
a slender, affectionate thing
not so different from the curled form
dozing with a nervous leg
on the soft plain of a sunlit couch,
dreaming,
maybe,
of the hunt.