Flight
for Cameron
August.

At sunrise, a fox (barefoot 
on porch above, I clutch steaming cup
to rumpled horizon) runs
downhill, stops, curls tail around nose, 
drops.

The morning mountains: rose, blue,
hung in mist.  Behind me
you have seen all this before, nothing
new
but me.

Recede.

The scene: in June, morning, and you
at my door.  Shy in blue
sweatshirt frayed at the cuffs.  Your eyes
smudged with sleep.
I rise 

from my rocker, with twice-warmed mug; held
steady in your belief.  Sunlight, and I 
loved  without words, no need
to explain this little world to you 
you knew.

13 December 2003

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