IN A FLASH, THE COYOTE DEVOURS HER PREY, AND WE BOTH BEAR WITNESS Sometimes we are the trees threatening to crush our houses and sometimes we are the houses. We live inside ourselves or we thrash to get out. We are doors but never walls. We are all halls and hollows. Sometimes I’m the swallow nesting in your front yard and you are the cacophony of something domesticated, hens in a cage and cats disputing territory. Sometimes we’re the silence of a coyote stalking its meal of dusk. We are territory but never the boundaries. We are the “no trespassing” sign and the trespass. The meal of dusk. The fur flying. Sometimes I am the flowering quince, thorny and fruitless. Sometimes entangled in your nodding boughs. I’m the wild mint, you’re the marsh thick with nettles. I am the slug impervious to sting. I expose my ankles like a risqué Victorian. I’m a rash without solace, I’m a ruckus in the river. You are the stream teeming with algae. I’m the dandelion green and you are the field. You have always been the field, and you know where the bull moose beds down in you and where the musk rat nests and the heron waits. I am the wait. I am the heron’s right eye, shifting. (Kathryn Smith)
Sunday, April 14
Sunday, April 14
Sunday, April 14
IN A FLASH, THE COYOTE DEVOURS HER PREY, AND WE BOTH BEAR WITNESS Sometimes we are the trees threatening to crush our houses and sometimes we are the houses. We live inside ourselves or we thrash to get out. We are doors but never walls. We are all halls and hollows. Sometimes I’m the swallow nesting in your front yard and you are the cacophony of something domesticated, hens in a cage and cats disputing territory. Sometimes we’re the silence of a coyote stalking its meal of dusk. We are territory but never the boundaries. We are the “no trespassing” sign and the trespass. The meal of dusk. The fur flying. Sometimes I am the flowering quince, thorny and fruitless. Sometimes entangled in your nodding boughs. I’m the wild mint, you’re the marsh thick with nettles. I am the slug impervious to sting. I expose my ankles like a risqué Victorian. I’m a rash without solace, I’m a ruckus in the river. You are the stream teeming with algae. I’m the dandelion green and you are the field. You have always been the field, and you know where the bull moose beds down in you and where the musk rat nests and the heron waits. I am the wait. I am the heron’s right eye, shifting. (Kathryn Smith)