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Nesting


                                                               

I sit on the porch out of doors
blue heeler beside me in the sun
her dusty back rises and falls
in far-off dream pant.

From the nest she dug earlier,
flecks of walnut bark stick to her coat,
dull sequins and webbing. My hands
make small, idle sweeps
across the warm fur.

A lone car travels up a side street.
Pup’s lazy head periscopes
to the sound.

Inside, my husband half watches a movie, mutters
to himself, soundtrack lonely and calling.
Our daughter busy, texts quiet calls,
fingers like a modern telegraph operator.

It’s Saturday and I have everything
and nothing to do. The silence in the yard,
punctuated with breeze, lulls me
to paralysis at the ankles
and full, low-slung gaze.

Our bodies bookmark midday
before we return to herding. 
Excerpted from The Shape of Caught Water
available from Red Mountain Press
or directly from the author (505.670.4327)

http://redmountainpress.us/

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