The first walk of the day when the bracken 

is still damp from morning’s rain

and fence posts are footed in mud,

I bring the ball colored like the underside

of a glacier or belly of a salmon. 

I throw it and my dog runs after until

she is as small  as the cupped

hand shading my eyes. 

She leaps, but neither crests like a whale

or makes a bell or parabola 

or any algebraic curve; she jumps forward

to meet the ball the way an eagle

glides parallel to the river, talons

outstretched,  grasping a pale bellied fish.

She opens her mouth and body, takes the ball

in, and only then does she acknowledge

ground, species, limitation.

This is part of the temple I build to the day,

that moment when my dog disbelieves

the earth. She and I go worshipping

flight; her ears unfurl  like sails

when the bracken is wet with rain.