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In January of 2003 Michael Fulkerson posted a poem he had written called "Hounds Breath". The poem really touched me, and I've kept a copy of it tacked to my refrigerator for the past 4 years. When I mentioned it in a post last winter, several forum members asked that it be re-posted, so I contacted Mike and asked permission . He just discovered my message and got back to me. So here, for the old-timers who remember it, and all the new forum members, is Mike's beautiful poem. Thanks Mike.


Hounds Breath

The hounds breath steams the morning air,
Winter cannot chill the warm feeling of just
watching them run.
Snow covered noses, tails wagging,
I swear it looks like they are smiling.
You know you never really see the colour of your hound until snow falls.
Then their black turns to coal
their tan and gold seems to be stolen from the rising of the sun.
Their beauty captures my heart and I call out to them as if they're my
small children.
They come running to check my scent and to receive belly rubs.
I stand in the sun and the cool winter air takes me back to yesterday,
How I miss the hounds of childhood, their voices echo in my mind but the
memories seem to fade. I stand and strain to bring see them in my
mind. The curse of getting older.
My feet cold in the snow, I miss my Dad and the old men who passed on
this love of the hounds.
It is strange how life can be so good while I carry this pain from
experience.

Michael W. Fulkerson
 

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That was great. I wish Mike would post more often. He always has great advice and comments.
 
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