The curve of her small head belies
the waddle of a body she settles
under the spent lilac. Black eyes
ringed blue take in the corner
garden where I sit with your letter
on my lap. She paces, pauses,
intermittently lifts her tail to reveal
a shock of white. I click my pen
and she erupts — a whistling ascent,
tail pointing, stretching. If I were
a hunter, I’d have taken her by now.
She’s so easy on the ground.
Louisa Howerow’s latest poems appeared in the journal Rhino, an anthology, War of 1812 Poetry & Prose: An Unfinished War (Black Moss Press, 2012) and as a small collection Voices, Choices (Phafours, 2012).