Outside of dreaming
the coyotes come for me —
and I am running,
outside of dreaming.

Heavy air
beats heart —
a proper pounding
and I am salt.

And unbinding broken wings
find something beneath —
whole and wholesome —
all the fruits
of summer,
of labor —
gifts from the grandmother.

Learn to love
a new fragility
and the full attention
to the present
it demands,
and I am wind —

and calling it
to me
by the braided trees,
by the next turning,
by the crossroads,
by the river.

Our eyes meet
through the tall grass —
and the young coyotes —
a mutual blessing.

His teeth
have torn
at my spirit shoes,
and I am no rabbit,
and I am no fleetfoot,
and I am no prey —
only the wind,
picking up speed.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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