She stepped barefoot off the wooden porch
glassed-in but still open to the breeze
onto the cool dew-laden meadow grass.
Moving swiftly now across the field
her way was marked with cool wet imprints
as abrupt and silent as the path of a deer.
To the garden she went
stooping now to scoop a handful
of cold fresh-tilled earth.
Here she placed the key
furtively glancing over her shoulder
in case she was seen.
Only the crows watched her, sly
and the chucked softly amongst themselves
at what they saw.
She placed a rock firmly over her work
brushed the soil from her hands onto her skirt
then wove her way back towards the house.
Slipping back into bed expertly
her body drank the warmth of the covers
quick to shake off the morning chill.
It was as if she had not even left
but for the dew on her feet
and a few small leaves, damp and rough.
August 19, 2008