Mornings, I look out my window,
Searching for Priscilla,
The calico, lounge-bound, stray cat
Who curled up, slept, and purred
On orange, vinyl cushions,
Never hunting
A day in her long life.
For the time of day,
I study the sun,
And the hawks,
Even though
It's not their season.
I imagine the herd’s coat colors --
Blood bay, black, grey,
Chestnut, buckskin, roan,
And I remember the warning --
A wild, white ring
Around the eye
Of one appaloosa.
I listen for the blacksmith,
the vet, the hay man,
the tractor noise,
And I worry about
Pitchforks, shovels, buckets, pipes,
And the tumultuous weather,
Because sometimes,
Back in the day,
Lightning spooked the mare.
Sometimes I wonder about
Heaven --
If it lives and breathes
Within one ear,
One tail,
One hoof,
One gravel driveway,
Or maybe inside
The darkest aisle.
I still listen for the call
Of my dapple bay horse.
His eyes were like dark saucers.
There were the others,
And then there was him.
When I was sixteen,
He was simply,
God.
I guess
I know these panes.
I guess I know that he was.
C.A. MacConnell
