I do know,

that I fall for the things that 

present themselves whimsically

only to land in love

with the prosaic touches of everyday.

Like how I don’t mind the Wyoming wind,

or the roughness of cowboys

who show me their scars 

three months out of the year.

(And then when winter comes, 

and I am gone somewhere else

warmer

and upturned-collars cleaner,

I long for the wind and the scars again.)

I know this is why I do love the silence

on the weary path—

the forgotten light, subject to the slivered moon

and the job of eyes to fix uncertain edges.

This is why I do love the old horse who will match my footsteps 

along the fence,

and how the mice who have built a tunnel from the barn to the coop, 

scurry in layer-feed dust away from the remains of fall. 

It is not my wonted chore,

so I breathe the suburbs’ passive fade into unbroken sounds,

and I delight in the footsteps that find the magic of an equine’s simplicity and desire:

the crunch of alfalfa between his teeth twice a day.