Little soft animal of your body
resting after the flight from danger,
dented and dinged in unseen ways,

I pick up your trembling form
from the hiding place you found
in the neighbor’s sheltering greenery,

cuddle you, whisper, You’re safe,
I’m here, I’m so sorry this happened
to you—breathing love into your

damp fur, take you to people
who fuss and tend you, then hand
you back to me not many hours later,

already looking more like your old self.
You who prefer outside to in—
look at you now, safe in your home

sanctuary, sleeping atop the kitchen
counter, now and then stepping
your front feet into the sink

for a drink from the tall cup
I keep there for you—resting,
eating, letting the little soft

animal of your body heal,
you content to be inside for now,
who holds no apparent grudge

against your attackers,
so, breathing and letting go,
neither do I.