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LETTERS FROM BOBOLINK FARM
By Barbara Tatham Johnson

 


WINTERING THROUGH BOSTON’S PUBLIC GARDEN

By Nancy Brady Cunningham

grateful for the warmth, I pull up my hood,
slide back into the dark of its den;
my parka zipped against January
my breath a vapor matching fresh snow

at Charles, I trot along the walkway on all fours
the ruff of fur at my vision’s edge
casts the world in hackles and muzzle
deepens my pawprints on swanboat bridge

through the distance I dream the Great Plains...
my ears quiver at the sound of Pawnee
the wolf people hunting
the medicine of my skins

my spirit clings to the pelt
as they enter their lodge
draped in stolen robes
the color of my back

at Arlington horns blare, brakes screech!
I shift my weight
slink between bumpers
crossing against the light


 


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Winter

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