Wyoming blew three of my cats away. One got caught in a bull pine. Another fell in the river and instantly froze. The third vanished. I climbed the tree and tossed her down to Tom. Tom took her and gave her a bowl of warm milk. In spring I went to the river and chiseled out the second cat. It was curled up, eyes closed. I broke the ice with Tom's hatchet. The cat shook out her cold and stretched her legs, one at a time. Every so often I find the third cat in a cloud. The Virgin Mary pets him and whispers words I immediately forget. Tom says it's the season, the years we live in. Something the wind blew in. I tell Tom to go back to the basement under the pipes. He's got to work at the Ace Hardware in Cody tomorrow morning. He needs his rest. I'm looking for a fourth cat. A gray one with green eyes. He was last seen by the river, sharing fish guts with a fallen angel.