The cat's a Maine Coon
                                three walleye doze—they are
unconscious now, encased in pond slush; a deep, subterranean

comfort comes swooping down,

a smell like rainfall in the desert . . .


She sees herself as too convex—the sky must
purge itself. The moon's a pair of mittens,

            Affection, in all the smaller ways, that it's
there, that we almost grow younger with it . . .


an osprey's
            been hovering in one place
                                                since August