August 27, 2014

A fox follows you
till fear makes you
sprint to lameness. A swim
in the ocean

in your dress awakens
your hidden desire
to be out

of control again. Your hair
may smell of seaweed
and salt mixed
with grief

for your father—some called
Running Fox—now dead
two years. But the air

you breathe
in this moment
brushes the Atlantic Ocean
across all surfaces—your face.



She responds more slowly, moves
more deliberately
as if her body has made a choice:

To be less
impulsive, more
responsible to the overall balance

of energy
in the world. To be still
long enough to receive

satellite signals
that will navigate her

to hidden trails
maintained by those
who are too soon gone.