From my place on the couch under stacks of blankets,
I can see a narrow slit of window light.
Through it are clouds, layered purple and gray,
Closer spaces and those drifting further and behind.
But the light hits them, and they appear like dapples.
From here, in my place of little stitched leather imaginings,
Distant gaseous clouds move like a gray horse,
Shifting and grazing within inches of the glass.
Right outside my house, I could mount the distance,
Feel the warmth and strength of withers and long legs,
And move away on wind like the gray's blood rushing.