What is flesh if not
a coat for bones, pockets
of light and darkness,
joy or pain.

If I could be a bird,
how perfect, feathered paper
wings and hollow limbs
delicate as cloud.

What shape or weight
is misery or love?

Who decides whose gravity
is soil? Who predicts
the final moments in the sky?

This evening, in the tangled
shadows of trees, a spotted owl
watches with his yellow eyes
coyotes catching mice.

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