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.
ISSUE: Winter 2006