by Keetje Kuipers
Each afternoon heavy clouds form in the north,
and each evening when I take the dogs out, it snows.
Each morning the mice fly invisible under the drifts,
leaving their tracks only where they cross my path.
I ought to be sick of my life, I ought to be too bored
for words. Each day the red-tailed hawk sits
in his tree, cocks his head from side to side, takes
a low pass over the field and returns with a mouse
for his meal. The dogs bark at the deer, and the deer
don’t move until the dogs have stopped. I ought
to be losing my mind with all this familiarity,
with loving every damn thing I’ve come to know.
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