As a beautiful cut in
the frantic school of light,
crouching on the gray rocks
above the trail. Her temple self,
hissing. As forgotten when
the mountain lion is gone
in three exact leaps.
My running the sun down,
seven miles from roads and homes,
her tongue’s needle under every rib.
A leg cramp through my fear
when I stop to press a knuckle
in the knot. The sun and dust and I
As a change inside, not dying.
A report I will keep from rangers
and neighbors—her beautiful cut
lost on the rocks above the trail.
I am changed by her not dying.
The two of us in one story now.