Wrapped in thrift shop wool i left
big concepts in the house to walk
among the winter patterns of the field
the dog running ahead to sniff out voles
plunge her face into the snow up to the ears
then bound off with a snort
to the next wild scent
expecting joy as she insists i do
lifting my arm from the keyboard
with a toss of her warm head
looking me in the eye until i read
her mind such a fierce consciousness
so patient with a primitive
thatched now with snow-weighted weeds
while beyond encircling hills
history charges without us.
