The cold wind bites
at my hands and face
As I watch Finn in the field
I hear her barking at me
The pitter-patter of her small paws
hitting the cold ground and the dead leaves
She is tearing through the brush with all her might
Her thick white and brown fur turns to a blur
as she scampers to the woods to find the yellow tennis ball
In the crisp air I can smell a fire in someone’s fireplace
Poetry