Sometimes I want to go to a place where the words run feral.  To corner them yapping and snarling in the street.  Mow them down, or be bitten, whichever comes first.  I can't make that happen.  It only comes by surprises.  With raw barks risen from dry throats.  It twists in the air from an awkward leap and is swallowed into silence by air so cold that it takes each syllable and wrings it out before birth.  Watch the van round them up from the alleyways strung with fresh laundry.  See them disappear, one by one into steel cages, leaving only the trail on the pavement of mud from their paws.  Somewhere else, out of sight, each one is precisely and humanely dispatched.  But I should like to remember them wild.  As they were.  On the prowl, so to speak...