One very cold morning, I watched the raven fly through the wood smoke,
across the open field,
and south-east toward the winter sunrise,
where Firefly stood in fresh-ploughed tracks,
alone and still.
She did not begrudge the company, nor the admiration,
but was extremely busy doing the things that only Fireflies can do.
She allowed some time for belly scratches,
and silly photographs of our frosty faces,
but did not follow when I left; she was, after all, far too busy doing Firefly things.
And I – well I had warmer things to do.