It comes after
she smells the prairie’s late
winter breath
before she opens her eyes.

It comes after being
so wound up
she forgets
to check the wound.

It comes after invisible
healing overnight
that coincides with
banging from the apartment

above, moaning
next door. A wild animal
climbs up
the drain pipe.

It comes after the dancing
gets out of hand.
And the driver has taken
the long way home.

It comes at the moment
the backseat
ruminator (that’s me)
notices how straight

and narrow

and true
the trail looks
from here
come spring.