A herd still so far from arrows
shies from fences
we admire cloven
hooves on mythic snow, torpedo up the slope
wind down to a Sunday pose.

Buffalo, cordoned wooly forms
fast on the horizon
the French savor duck
or beef this time of year.

Platter heads poised, we take aim
Shutter, click click
they stand motionless
a tender minstrel
beading lashes slip on down
our closest prayer.

We take time in backing out,
the edge of our breathing
caught,
a fine
but grainy
line.