by JB Mulligan

Tatters of winter, scattered
across the hill. Below,
an old man walks a dog
that chests into the wind
before its huddled owner.
The sky is ragged clouds
in ridges, heralding snow.
Snow waiting for snow.
Dirt waiting for spring.
Branches rattle as water
rattles the reeds in the ditch;
the dog squats and dumps
a steaming curl. The man
nodes and turns for home,
the dog parading beside him.
Inside, his tea unfurls
a tiny, steaming sky,
a universe inside
another universe.
An old man sometimes knows
enough is what you have.

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