Skip to main content

June 2, 2022

Morning Routine

Snow falls,
sugars the brown barn,
brown ground,
the leaf-bare silver-gray aspens.
Pinky sleeps in his stall,
swayback wrapped
in tattered, red-plaid flannel,
breath fogged with cold.
He stirs.
Ears flicked back,
Storm door shuts,
porch boards creak,
snow crunches.
“Hey, boy.”
She rubs his mottled muzzle.
He noses her wool-gloved palm,
smells apple,
moves closer, nudges.
“Easy boy, easy,”
latch scrapes back,
she steps inside,
“we’ll get there.”