The dog watches me sit at the edge of the
bed pulling a frayed t-shirt over my head,
shoulders rounded with work not finished.
Pushing back, swinging my feet under the
covers and easing down to the pillow. Wet
whiskers at bedtime; her gray nose nudges
the quilt and she waits. 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 howling moon, my ribs go soft. Good girl.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm