Sonnet for Daisey

My dog napped on a sheet of newspaper

that I'd been reading, having made a ring

of punctures in the commentary, for

she never let us trim her nails. The wings

of birds out back could not tempt her from sleep,

though twitching legs and quiet yelps betrayed

her dreaming impulse - rustling in her deep

unfettered mind were feathers of the prey

she never caught. Or maybe did. I can't

be sure. I do know that she crinkled all

the newspaper that laid upon her land,

regardless of our protest. The grey wall

of print recalls her like a bird, in-bush,

awaiting wheaten burnish, crinkled flush.