Outside, the small squawks of geese
settling to sleep in the
March meadow.
Inside, one of the dogs snoring
softly at the foot of
the narrow
stairs, and the last of the embers
rustling on the grate
like wind in the dried
leaves of the aspen by the roadside,
pale
yellow in the slants of flaring sun.
Half of her face obscured from
the dim
light of the lamp as she drifts into sleep,
her feet beneath
the blanket
relaxing by degrees in my lap.