Aubade with Calf

So early the mist remains hammocked
between hills. My hand
palms a calf’s muzzle.

We are two beings
drawn together by instinct. By this definition,
I have found the one.

There should be an epiphany, but I’m shin-deep
in brambles, mucus running
from both our noses.

To what extent does he understand purpose.
To what extent was I made without.

There’s nothing soft here
except the tuft between his fathomless eyes,
his ears flickering at phantoms.