Mornings, I look out my window
For the orange and black
Stray cats,
For all of the colors, and the
Noise,
For the tumultuous
Weather,
For a rest from my racing brain,
For the time of
Day, and the hawks,
Even though
It's not their season.
Sometimes I wonder about
Heaven --
If it lives and breathes
Within an ear,
A tail,
A claw, or maybe inside the
Darkest aisle.
When I was sixteen, my bay horse
Was simply,
God.
There were the others,
And then there was him.
I guess
I know these panes.
I guess I know that he was.
C.A. MacConnell
