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the Greyhounds

they think thin. they expect to win, and are not known for patience. muscle and hustle are among their virtues, but not persistentime; they are at ease in alleys thick with grime, though they keep clean as the dream of tomorrow. they do not lean. they do not borrow. they sign and remember, but each name and mnem is s[coll]electively changed. their rooms are small and carefully arranged.

one of them seems prone to sneer. they do not leer. they look hungry always, day and night, and never so much as when eating. they do know fear—they know it well—but if it ever shows, it’s more than fleeting. (remember, always: they’re competing.) they speak soft, but strong. their legs are long, their chests are deep; it may surprise to learn they’re large of heart, but they consider their coursing an art—witness, they insist on always giving fairlaw start.

the small one’s called Calvin or Ke[l]vin or Carl. his snarl is sincere. he pricks up the ear on the left when he listens for paces. he and the others are nothing like brothers, though they share very similar faces. when they wake up, they stretch and say “off to the races.” in sleek suits they slip their ga[i]tes. they do not wait. their eyes are bright and keen and sometimes surly. they go in pairs, and for official affairs they always arrive early.

they lack some sense of roads, it’s said, but just watch when their look locks a mark: their preydrive sends them sprinting as if burning. how they thrive on speed and go-by, wrench and trip and turning! this is when you best can spy their spark.

thin, hungry, hurried, early, driven: these are the best words you could be given to start to understand their ambitions. but don’t think this sums, for while some hunters hum when a hare eludes hounds, content with a race and recission, those who’ve gathered these greys have less gracious ways, and expect them to do more than growl.

take heed, then, when you hear them howl.

Published inthe Greyhounds