at the window i sit, pretty saro is
purring in my lap. the dogs have
gathered at my feet, baxter is
dreaming again. his lips quiver
when he’s chasing a bear. only
god knows what will happen if
he catches him. isis can’t hear
so much and is a cat poop eater.
old max is getting old. he romps
as fast as he can up the mountain,
and limps all the way down. gordon
is blind, deaf and doesn’t have
any teeth left. i have five seconds
after he wakes from his nap to get
him out the doggy door or he will
pee on the floor.
cars are whizzing by faster than the
limit allows. someone’s going to
get caught by the state police
hiding at the gravel pit a mile up
out my window is a world i barely
know. not enough to shake a stick
at anyhow. in all my years i’ve
never known a place like this. bad
and good entwined like lovers. most
of them working for eight bucks an hour,
part time. they’ve convinced
themselves it’s better than not
working at all. i don’t understand
their logic. i bitch when i have to
little and when i have to much.
i know where i’ve been and
where i’m going. nowhere is
just another stop on highway
splitting ash for winter, filling the
bird feeders, and stoking the wood
stove for the night is enough for
the day. i’m going to watch out this
window for the deer to make their
way down from the trees at dusk.
they will be coming for corn and
apples. i named the fawn gideon.
she’s not so small anymore, she’s
ready for winter too.
at the window i get to wondering
about the weeds i pulled last spring
to make room for the roses. doesn’t
seem fair to the chickweed. i close
my eyes and plan where i want to
keep the goats come spring.
tomorrow i have no plans. i may sit
at my window, wait for the snow that’s
coming and write a poem about it.