Hooded in porcelain enamel,
she stands with palms out-turned
to passing traffic and livestock
grazing in fields across the road.

She stays bone dry in driving rain;
on sunny days, bathed in shadow.

She’s been planted in the yard
as long as anyone can remember.

The mangy Bluetick hound sleeps
at her feet, unleashed, ears cocked
to the roaring of an unsound world.