she sits on the stone wall
in front of the moss
in front of the ferns
and the heather
and takes me in
with eyes wide enough
to swallow the air
which quivers in
our suspended gaze
so wise
so small
so knowing

to reach out my arms
is futile
pride fills her
arching back
and rounded belly
she will not
be bidden

i wait
taking in her
wariness
her delicate
sensing
so keen
i fill
with wonder
and delight
and some trepidation

trusting me
she slips
from her perch
and slips
to perch
on my lap

feathery
slight head grazing
my heart
i hold her
lightly
no grasping
to break the
fine pulsing
between us
we look
toward the bit
of forest
fern
moss and heather

gently breathing
my chest
burgeons with
awe
imbibing
in quietude
this transient
miracle
of wholeness