I am the lame horse in the blanketed fieldlooking out past a small ghost of a stump.
Nothing here has happened all day, then you walk
into the sticks and frozen grass of our field in the stillness of winter.
You move closer and I look to see just what it is you are looking at.
Ah, the cat’s eyes. White bowl of her face, the almost grin.
As if in her Arctic sweater dwells another universe.
You love her as you never have loved before;
she stays to have you take her photograph,
pretends it is nothing to her,
and you will never
know her name.