Before sky lightens to reveal a coyote fence,
he revels in the unseen: a green eel snaps;

javelinas snort; a cougar sips at a stream.
He will not live as if a seine slowly tightens

around them. Though he will never be a beekeeper,
or lepidopterist, or stand at the North Pole,

he might fire raku ware, whisk them to Atitlán,
set yellow irises on the table, raft them

down the Yukon. He revels at the flavor of
thimbleberries in his mouth, how they rivet

at a kiss. In an instant, raku ware and
the Yukon are at his fingertips. As light

traces sky out the north window, he nods:
silver poplars rise and thin to the very twig.