His scrambling sets the angled bank
to an arroyo crumbling
downslope into earth
when a jackrabbit makes stones come suddenly
alive. A mesquite steps aside
so he can pass
from desert into sky, from where
he looks down at an unexpected sound. Bright
morning, coyotes
back in shadows, sleeping
as only fur can. It’s a reflex leap
from creosote
to the portals of light
and a space open to receive information
that has travelled through the universe
to reach the startled ears
that hear even sunlight
as it touches the ground. Up
from the gravel bed, stopping to assess
the quicker way to disappear,
he’s a memory before
ever being seen. There is no history
to slow him down, a clear path
in all directions. One runs low and out
of sight, one high among
the stars, and one
ends where the sun is black. So run,
spirit run, don’t stop
to ask the way; become earth, wind and
fire, nobody’s father,
nobody’s son.
.
David Chorlton
.