You’re a long slow moan
that I hear in my chest—
the way bugle music
thrums a choir,
the assembled mourners,
the ribs of pews.

In the open field
where first snow
has veiled the jaundiced grass,
two deer rub their muzzles
on frozen stubble, the length
of their elegance
a stand of bare trees.
A long slow moan
rises from the cold ground.