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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