Big Horn Sheep

It can't be called chasing, the way we pine
towards them, their shaggy grandfather coats,
horns curling unfamiliar alphabets in the air.

Our legs are drowned in snow.  Theirs glide
like dance instructors through the stuff,
spelling out steps we clumsily repeat like

6th graders in the gymnasium.  They have
black belts in grace.  We clutch each other's
arms to keep from tipping, dizzy egg cups

in gloves and hats.  We stretch our arms out
to them, pleading that they bring back beauty,
music to our bones.  We fall.  They disappear.