you did not skitter
onto the asphalt
what kept you at the fence,
what told you to turn around?

you scampered back
to the fallow fields
long before my killing machine rolled by,
but you kept an eye, on me,
ears perked up as well, listening
to the harried hum of my motor,
dulled white noise to me, yet a roaring
coded symphony to you, punctuated by birdsong,
ghostly voices in the gray wind, and perhaps
the languid liquid thump of your own heart    

what kept you from the road
what drove you back to your plaintive plains?  
things I will never see, nor hear  
even as my own heart beats wildly  
at the sacred sight of you