The leash slips from my grip.
One second I’m holding the rules in my hand,
the next—gone.
She bolts.
Brown blur on cracked earth,
ears back, eyes wild.
For one glorious, rule-free moment,
she owns the park.
No crates.
No “stay.”
No clipped voice saying her name twice.
She runs like the thing she once was,
before bowls,
before collars,
before people with pockets full of biscuits
and so many goddamn rules.
And I stand there,
frozen,
half afraid,
half jealous as hell.
Because I know—
deep in the rib cage—
I would trade a dozen quiet walks
for one run like that.
And maybe,
maybe one day,
I will.
