To run with the croak of ravens,
to twist my fingertips into the edges of ponderosa bark
which is the sweetness of vanilla.
To feel my breath freeze to my face
as the city crams into cars
and plumes of carbon monoxide.
the deer scatter mountain ash berries
across the sidewalk
and nibble away the faces of sagging pumpkins.
Tumbleweed collects beneath tires
and traces wisps in the snow.
Someone has planted creeping Oregon grape as a shrub,
and flowers from European gardens
spread up the mountainside.
People stack stones into an equilibrium on the ridge line.
Fat black bears streak
across the manicured golf course.
I don’t know who told me of this division.
Perhaps the city,
or maybe history.
Perhaps the sheltered sunrooms
and hot white lights,
or the network of electric lines
above my locked door.
They dip into a tangle against the sky.
there is the flicker,
with her black breast
and orange under her wings
like the spread of a summer sunset,
clinging with cracked nails
to the long-dead wood
of the telephone pole.
She would be gone.