first, the nuns, running.
they were not fleeing,
though they flew by
night, a pack along the
path below the hills.
i mistook them for monks.
jacob corrected me in
my sleep and said, nuns,
running, not fleeing, but
flying, their cassocks
behind them as ribbons,
as branches, as wings.
and then the two stags, in
union with the four does,
running and fleeing,
through the beets, the echo of corn,
over the remnant of onion grass
and clover, past purslane
and potato skins, muddled in earth.
each leg plucking a string of the cleft,
the sound quick and strenuous,
then vibrating, fleeing,
as ribbons, as branches, as wings.
last night it was children,
skating on the ocean where
it had frozen, somewhere between
the first and second bar.
when the whistle blew, they
turned their bodies to seals
and swam to shore, catching
the still nodding waves of
movement, of salt water.
i was present, up to my neck
in the bob, but unconcerned
for myself. rather, as an onlooker,
i fretted over the kids as they
flew, ran, swam, and fled,
in unison, as birds, branches,
nuns, deer, ribbons tied
about antlers, as wings,
waving.
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