Somewhere, the

(for a nine-month-old calf left stranded
in a Minnesota blizzard with no food, no water)

By Lyn Lifshin

outline of his body
in ice and frozen
mud. Somewhere
in the wind, the
scent of his nicker-
ing. The blueberry
bushes hold his
cry, the maple bark's
singed with his high
pitched yelp of pain.
The warm barn
that held him holds
his shape in the
wind, the alfalfa.
He was a skeleton
in love with life.
Some saw more than
they could bear in
his eyes. Some saw
hope in his nuzzling,
the bales of hay
blurred nights when
wind blew sideways
and the only space
that wasn't ice was
that shape in the
form of his body