Tish Davis

Stopping By

On the darkest evening of the year, the dogs flush a deer out of the woodlot yelping and chasing it full stride through a field of deep snow obeying my recall only seconds before reaching the frozen pond.

an invitation—
tails fanning the scent
of their snow clumps

I turn off the flashlight and lead us to an outdoor bulb, to the pole behind the farmhouse; the wind brushed snowflakes like moths crowding for lamplight.

my empty cup
into the saucer’s ring—
whistling wind