Run of the Hound

No one knows why the hound runs so fast,

Gives bay to the moon when it trees at last.

Is it bred so far into him that he must?

Should his passion for pursuit we trust?

Was it one who loved it deep and true

Then taught it to every pup he knew?

Do they all share this fate and not know why

They rush through the dark with gleeful cry?

Does the urge swell in heart then to voice excite

As he pants and sniffs, entranced in delight?

He must be good at problem solving

When the path ends quickly resolving

Where a river was crossed or a circle back taken

Far angry is the hunter when hound is mistaken.

If he finds purpose in this task

Could we honestly even ask

If it is by our design or by his own will?

No matter the answer, he will go on still.

So no one knows when it started,

Only that the hound has not departed

From this destiny to which he is called

And with love to it he is enthralled.

It matters not why he gives chase

Far he is happy in this race.