by Emile DickinsonA furry fellow in the sand
Occasionally runs;
You may have met him,–did you not,
His notice sudden is.
The waves divide as with a comb,
A shiny nose is seen;
And then they dwindle your feet
And slide back out to sea.
He likes an open acre,
A beach or grassy dune.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at noon,
Have passed a fuzzy tennis ball
Forgotten in the sun,–
When, stooping to secure it,
Someone snatched it on the run.
Several of nature's people
Encountered live and in my head;
I must admit I feel for them
No small amount of dread;
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a sudden wishing
That I had a treat or bone.
