​It's crisply cold and “snowish,”
A Christmas Day to relish;
Our hearts are full of wishes,
And pockets carry tissues.

With misty breaths that lead us,
We glide through icy meadows
Expectantly and open
For every marvelous token.

Ahead are trees that beckon
And shrubs that seek a mention,
Their splendor merely granted
But now on this day vaunted.

Our joy is overwhelming,
Tears welling, overflowing;
We say it's windy watering
And turn to tissue touting.

Heavenly melody gently playing
Tells a tale of life made precious 
By a soul we all called Marley
Filled with love and joy tenacious.

Limits now have all been lifted,
Gates and bars and curfews gone.
Effortless he shares his spirit,
Gift refreshed like endless dawn.

​

It's drawn with majesty unmatched
Against the morning sky
To greet all yearning hearts that rise
And seek the vistas high.

Each daybreak then we make our trek
Down verdant paths to beach,
And there we stand on golden sands
To see the mountain teach.

From shore to shore and then aloft
We feel the canvas soar
To paint a panorama grand
With Crystal Range allure.

The peaks that float on distant clouds
Their grandeur, mystery share.
Though deeper breaths now fill the soul,
Our smaller scale they bear.

The mountain's ancient presence lends
The air a certain feel
And primes the light with buzz and power,
The hike—its great appeal.

So every morning here we tread,
With dogs excited, too.
The vastness of the life we see
An inspiration true.

​

​A memory contributed by Princess Zoelandia, the Supreme Huntress…
(To be followed by some lines from Lord Zakwoof himself! See below.)

An Indian Paintbrush makes me smile
While trotting home the final mile;
But Rabbitbrush, ubiquitous,
Doth more to stir the painting lust,
As tufted tips stand ready made
With yellow paint or greener shade.

Though canine folk may seldom paint, 
This shrub's appeal is still not faint;
Its name evokes the hopping prey
That sit and chew for half the day.
Thus every dog with hopeful mind
Hath dreams of bunny there to find.

—Princess Zoelandia of the Woof Clan

​A memory contributed by Lord Zakwoof of Glenwoof, Gourmand and Scholar…


The natural grasses clock the age
Of seasons passing, green and beige;
The changes echo in the sage,
But lasting scent will there assuage.

Though buds be tan from life they sang, 
That sagely shrub will keep its tang
For every dog with lively fang
Who ventures brisk through scrubby land.

Its foliage near at shoulder height,
From where I tread on trails aright,
Does comfort bring in corners tight,
A verdant shawl, perfumed and light.

—Shortfellow (aka Lord Zakwoof of Glenwoof)