by | Aug 15, 2023 | Poetry

Dog perched in an open window looking content, as all dogs should be.


the horse cups his velvet ear to the night,
listening perhaps to the barn swallows dreaming
high up in the rafters,
or a ragged cloud scraping past
the bright horn of the moon

his midnight ruminations are his own;
we are together on this earth,
but we know it differently –
what he perceives, I can only guess

his great eye is an opaque window
I cannot see beyond
though I long to,
oh, how I long to


on opening day of rifle season,
the deer suddenly appear in the lower pasture,
grazing tranquilly alongside the horses
whom we’ve blanketed in blaze orange;
by what magic does their internal almanac
sync with our arbitrary, measured human days,
I wonder

and how does the dog always intuit
when I’m headed home,
long before anyone else in the house knows;
I’m told he wakes from a sound sleep,
goes to the window to watch for me,
his perception unerring, inscrutable


once, in a snowstorm,
a sparrow grazed my cheek as it flew past;
in that moment, brushed by wings,
salted with feather-light snow,
I felt chosen, a child of both sky and earth,

Photo by Manu H, used and adapted under CC.

About The Author


Nylah Lyman is a disabled poet. Her debut collection of poetry, Frail Union (Encircle Publications, 2021), draws on her experience of living with a chronic, invisible illness. Individual poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Bellevue Literary Review, the minnesota review, Hunger Mountain, the South Carolina Review, and other journals. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast program.