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.