In the morning when the tilt of the world is
just so
the sunlight races down the small mountain
facing our porch
so fast you couldn’t possibly
beat it in track shoes
nor would you want to try. It’s too steep
and the rock is crumbly.
Once in Three R Canyon I saw a mountain
lion a half mile
distant flow up such a rock face and suddenly
was struck by my fleshy
limitations. I read that some women run with wolves
but I walk with opossums
and someday will slow to the desert tortoise’s
stately pace.
Char says that a poet has only to be there when the bread
comes fresh from the oven.