I follow the rutted path,

my boots snapping ice

as brittle as spun sugar

 

When I reach the five bar gate

the cows emerge from the mist,

black-faced and liquid-eyed

 

They shuffle from hoof to hoof,

paw the frost-hard earth,

and watch me, silent,

their breath hanging in the cold air

 

Later, in the fug of the cafe,

I remember their velvet muzzles

as I watch the steam rise from coffee

as dark as their flanks