After the kill, there is the feast.
And toward the end, when the dancing subsides
and the young have sneaked off somewhere,
the hounds, drunk on the blood of the hares,
begin to talk of how soft
were their pelts, how graceful their leaps,
how lovely their scared, gentle eyes.
--Lisel Mueller (1924-)
Steve is off to Turkish Kurdistan, in search of hounds. May he find all the dogs of his desire!
