A Herd Poem

I know in some towns there are no welcome signs

for your loitering-in-the-street ways

or ‘mistaking’ everyone’s garden for a salad bar.

But here, the herd is welcome.

You rise from your resting place to grace my day.

Safe from coyote, behind woodchuck’s berm and compost bin,

braced against cold hard facts, you forage on

always present to sound and smell.

How does one endure the kind of bitterness

that freezes every breath and

draws tears to well

from eyes firmly resolved against it?

Do your little ones hear bedtime stories of poor Mr. Tumnus

or tremble with nightmares of a fireless hell?

Do they beg for tales of sunny green fields and

whine for something warm to chew?

I’ve seen the way you bed down in that circular way at night,

backs to each other, facing outward,

ever faithful to the herd. Sleep watching.

Waiting for daylight to return.

And when it does,

the cardinal comes to grace your day

while I resist the urge to bring you

heated blankets and warm food.

Patricia Spreng