Down Wind

Face out the window, 
what was the sensation
of catching a glimpse of sheep grazing 
on a knotty bank,
and being gone before they had time to pause,
look up and register your passing
before you could register every tendon,
taut in a relationship with
undulation, the creases in the jawline,
getting grass down,
before they could measure
the angles of light
that skimmed across your face,
neckline,
and your wind-whipped collar?
What was that when
life seemed short yet slow.