A squirrel running on the roof above my head: the rhythm of hoofbeats in the paintings of horses from when they were still thought to bound.
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Cat paws are not silent,
They thunder up and down wooden stairs at 3 am
A herd of elephants in the night
They stand at the door
Watch the small man across the street
Suited for work
He has Irish farmer’s face and five sons
He lends them to me when it snows