It is cold.  The cows bunch
in the yard, hang their heads
against each other's flanks and endure.

These are not my cows and theirs
is not my endurance.  Again
and again I will leave this place

and never return.  There may be snow.
There will be erasure, the world mercurial
from shelter to shelter.

Heartache become boneache become
sleep.  Where is the evidence if not
between the last good storm and now?