Distant Thunder

by Andrew Wyeth

Two pines pitch thin shadows
over the ferns, an occasional
daisy. The air still.

Berries picked, coffee drunk,
binoculars set aside.
Betsy's hands rest atop
her blue shirt.
Felt hat, a shade for the eyes.

Rattler, the old hound, first
to bolt at a twitch of thunder,
peeks out from his hill of bed,
eyes down for the count, ears
shut tight against his head.

How tired these two grow
on a perfect summer day.
Nothing troubles.

— Kathleen M. McCann