The Meadow 13 Privilege Nancy White The dog barks in its sleep. Green to my left, to the right, a sea of black. A history of worry, but lately the dark’s grateful. How good not to be young, good to have a house, and food, and weather, fine shoes in the closet, the closet itself, the shape and the smell of it, corners full of quiet. The hallway. The driveway, a highway, friends sleeping wherever they are. I have a flute, a book, a table which I light with my grandmother’s lamp. Its red belly has kept me company since she died. A barred owl cooks for you who cooks for you and coyotes have gathered to chitter and prowl the top of the hill together. You, breathing, amid laundry and axes and windowshades none of it important but all of it there if we need it.
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