A fuzzy place on the old rump brocade
has its place in autumn bliss, couched
when the low arc of the orb now white
gave away to slow breaths in and out.
Ears pulled back, eyes slack grey and
white on a perch of stained red birch
never meant for wings but wings now
lifted by regular breaths seem birdlike.
The bliss place is you and me and him
in the desert or in the now of silence
and we do not know its name.