Spring Evening on Blind Mountain  

Louise Erdrich

I won’t drink wine tonight

 I want to hear what is going on

 not in my own head

 but all around me.

 I sit for hours

 outside our house on Blind Mountain.

 Below this scrap of yard

 across the ragged old pasture,

 two horses move

 pulling grass into their mouths, tearing up

 wildflowers by the roots.

 They graze shoulder to shoulder.

 Every night they lean together in sleep.

 Up here, there is no one

 for me to fail.

 You are gone.

 Our children are sleeping.

 I don’t even have to write this down.