BEDTIME
After a time
my mother and I
unroll our blankets.
We go to bed
beneath the cottonwood shade.
I have my own prayer
to the night.
I whisper it,
whisper it,
but only the night wind hears.
The horses move
within the shadows.
My father sings.
It is night.
The sheep move
within the circle of branches.
My mother sleeps.
It is night.