The Dulcimer — Klein Creek Farm
by Bakul Banerjee

A late winter snow-shower drew
white borders around the stones
on the culvert. Flecked with pieces
of flint, those round stones were
from distant rivers, aliens like me,
but unlike my little girl. She stamped
muddy shoe prints on them running
to the barn cat across the stream.
The cat yawned and disappeared.

I distracted the disappointed child
with the promise of newborn lambs
farther down the path. We stood in line
to hold the milk-bottle to a tiny one.
My breasts ached for babies now grown.
On the way back, we met old horses
lost in their own thoughts. The cat
returned to join our wondrous walk.

The sky was scribed by contrails.
Birds on their way home sang
the joyous vesper with the music
of a single dulcimer from somewhere.

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