She knows the rhythm, the scent, the sound,
Of shoes that crunch on the gravel ground.
The keys that jingle, the latch that sings—
All sacred signs of returning things.
The hours stretch long like the fields out back,
Still, she watches the winding track.
Tail a thump when a breeze rolls through,
Hope rekindled in morning dew.
The birds may call and the squirrels may play,
But Freeda waits in her steady way.
Not for a bone or a walk or treat—
But for the sound of familiar feet.
For they are the world she knows as true,
Her pack, her purpose, her morning dew.
And though the hours may slow and bend,
She waits with heart that will not end.
For love like hers does not grow thin—
Freedom Freeda waits to let them in.
Thank-you for reading.
Many blessings to all.
Much love and light,
Brenda Marie
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