A TRIPTYCH FROM THE COLLECTIVE
the horse cups his velvet ear to the night,
listening perhaps to the barn swallows dreaming
high up in the rafters,
or a ragged cloud scraping past
the bright horn of the moon
his midnight ruminations are his own;
we are together on this earth,
but we know it differently –
what he perceives, I can only guess
his great eye is an opaque window
I cannot see beyond
though I long to,
oh, how I long to
~
on opening day of rifle season,
the deer suddenly appear in the lower pasture,
grazing tranquilly alongside the horses
whom we’ve blanketed in blaze orange;
by what magic does their internal almanac
sync with our arbitrary, measured human days,
I wonder
and how does the dog always intuit
when I’m headed home,
long before anyone else in the house knows;
I’m told he wakes from a sound sleep,
goes to the window to watch for me,
his perception unerring, inscrutable
~
once, in a snowstorm,
a sparrow grazed my cheek as it flew past;
in that moment, brushed by wings,
salted with feather-light snow,
I felt chosen, a child of both sky and earth,
beloved
