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I want bare feet
dirty
in my back yard where
neighbors are sections of land
the size of my hand. Where the lawn
is too long
and my husband is home
soon down a gravel driveway in that
diesel Ram he always
wanted. Hills
we call them
in Saskatchewan are just
lumps of dirt prostate before the sky
dimmed
in preparation. I need
to weed the garden. A bay horse
its large jaws
seem to digest the grass
before it finds the stomach. Memories
of winter and straw
and sun and lying by a similar
creature dozing
ears floppy breath
heavy as the air implies. A cat
has found its way to owner
small cries
for dander scratches and lap
holding. I could be
baking or reading or cleaning
weeding preparing 
but I'm dreaming wrapped
in a scarf I got from a friend she forgot
to give me for Christmas last year.