Fate

The coveted gusts of clean and green-filtered air
That bring with its fairy flight
The brittle fate of the hungry dogs,
Diploma-collared dogs with a penchant
For snarling,
Disorder the fur of
Those whose fur it has not set aright.

The show begins and the ribbon is pinned
On the dog with near perfect fur,
As if all its snarling had made it so,
But the mind of the wind is deep,
Unscrutable,
And the victor does not
Always look the part.

Yet the fall of fur always
Plays by the woosh
And the ribbon is had
Mostly by the unsnarly ones.