published in Volume 2, Issue 3 on May 21, 1995
Creeping diffidently you nestle into my crooks and hollows, chin reaching to seek the blunt touch of an articulate hand. I hold my breath as you settle onto me soft as a drift of feathered snow. To move now would be to scatter your gentle trust, so hard won, to still the delicate prickling rhythm of your paws, the rasping stretch of your pink washrag tongue, the ceaseless drone of your rumbling tide-song purr. Time stops. We float in this small, calm moment, and dream.