Shearing Season
A fleece arrives in a black plastic bag
in a brown cardboard box
and unfolds in one piece
on the porch, like a white buffalo rug
or a wooly afghan.
The street is quiet and she takes her time
spreading the wool in the sun
and rustling out the dust.
The heat of her hands melts the lanolin
which coats her arms and makes them glisten and smell
of the farm far away.
Soon she will make something of it,
but today
being here in the warm animal presence
is enough.
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