Something that we cannot see but can see it’s effects—this frightens us like dogs of rolling thunder; cowards we become; suspicious, shaking, superstitious; everyone is our suspect when invisible currents shock our skin in every room, under every tree. Soon cornered, the dogs we are, we bite—or look for some braver one to do our biting. Put us in a pen, wrap us in false blankets, coddle our minds and assure us our woes. Soon, wrapped up in the master’s words the storm ends. Now it has passed! Do you have your bravery? Do you have your own thoughts? Or do your feeble paws lack thumbs; must you beg for the door to be reopened when you yearn for nature again? And what of the master who likes his dogs quiet? He may sing songs of freedom and wave canine flags—for he appears as one himself, a dog, but one of a different breed from you and he knows it; he a regal dane to your cackling toothless half-breed…and he’s right; lightning to him illuminates the sky, uncovers what might be stricken, and gathers the meek for his rounding. He’s been trained and puts on only the mores of conquistadors while yours anchor you to the ground like strong magnets to your every atom. Fear is a magnet, friends. A honey pot for Pooh bears, fat and slow moralists for the feasting. Any relief, even the striking of our brothers, our dear pen mates, even this feels like recourse—a proxy of power when we’ve lost ours along with our senses. Fear is the worst virus. More virulent, more invisible, older and more subtle than sore throats. Those who have eyes for it have eyes too—and appetite— for either whipping or retreating. Good morning from the hiding place, this forest of wild cracks and booms. I fear too but I fear in freedom, under my own trees. Good morning there in the corner of your pen. Enjoy the sunshine and your ill-fit rain jacket for this weather. I wish you an escape, a memory of thunder and of your master and his courage. I wish you a break-loose and canine revolt, long teeth of wisdom and biting for yourselves.