Before the young coyotes crawl
from their dens to steal the sun, I
slide from mine to capture
the air. Putting my heel forward, I
imagine myself a buzzing insect
waltzing around the trees,
and I rise above
the furious
rocks and twigs
that lie beneath
my sole. I taste the leaf
and river as bitter
as earth, blades of grass
inject my arteries with
sound. And when the morning becomes
directed by the
hour hand, I wash
my legs in a steel
wool prairie, open by the river,
and attempt to hold
one last moment on the trail,
before the hunters, with strong
hindquarters, replace my footprints
with their restless
tracks made
with spokes
and wheel.
