Lit Match Day
Beneath the silent nest in a coyote gaze
on a lit match day
the neap tide turned, squirrel-quick. It was after that
the spruce grouse hummed, calling her chicks
after that
the caramel moose calves wobbled ridge-ways
after that
the juncos ticked among the birch boughs
now heavy with green. Really, it was just
another day, where one moment
every egg counted seemed within reach
between the soft down of
every fall, caught
by fledgling vanes vivid
with the jeweled flash of promise, everything
wrapped in circling light. The next,
the sun was breaking against the ridge
like a yolk. Both can be held
by a coyote’s gaze. Wings aren’t always singed
in solar fire. Sometimes
the dream itself carries us
back down to earth.