A questioning child

I thought the world held answers—

that I could learn the code of winter ravens’

caws, trace the notes of swallows’ nests

high up in the bluff

and understand.


So I crept over the forest’s thick moss—

following rabbits as they raced

to their burrows, stuffing wild berries

in my mouth like a summer bear.


When it rained, I sought shelter

under fallen trees and imagined slim weasels

slipping through thick bracken,

speckled shells between small sharp teeth.


I found no clarity, only random moments—

when a blue whale breached in the gray inlet

or a porcupine, quills flat to its sides,

scuttled through a darkening forest

and Canadian Geese

cut arrows through crimson—


Then I caught something soft and unspeakable,

held it close, like an injured animal,

and felt the slow beating

of an alien heart.



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