by Jim Farfaglia
The six of them wander into my yard,
tender noses to the early-spring grass,
searching for the sustenance
our deep winter has denied them.
Different sizes, different shades of brown,
and one, I notice, favoring a front leg;
hoof grazing ground with each labored step.
From one of winter’s traps?
From some aspiring hunter?
From the catchall of life’s sorrows?
When the others move on, she stays;
something in this space healing her.
I watch, feeling her warm my winter-heart…
then, taking a tender step,
I start the foraging of my day.