The dog watches me sit at the edge of bed
pulling a frayed t-shirt over my head,
shoulders rounded with work not finished.
Pushing back, swinging my feet under covers
and easing down to the pillow. Wet whiskers
at bedtime; her gray nose nudges the quilt.
Yes, I say. She lumbers up and drops flush
to my side. That sweet weight of her head as
she rumbles a satisfied moan. It takes longer
for my shoulders to surrender the day but then,
between the prairie grass and the howlin’ moon,
my ribs go soft. Good girl.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm