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,
listening.
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.”
