|That you want to slip deep
into the forest. Pine needles
like the sharpest animal’s hair,
a lake at the end of the trees’
illusion tunnel. That the fish
would flip delightedly out
of the water’s vast surface.
That the cougar and the bear.
That the shriek of the American
pika, volcanic ash, a yip across
the mountains, a calling. That
you admit this, a doom rustled
to the leafy floor. You are molting,
exuviating what was once safe.
It is not catastrophic to be free.