This gray shape before me
not any known thing.

From twenty feet, my eyes slide
into other eyes, full

of wild streaks of darkening sky.
The creek rushes in its small calling.

He moves first, turns from the trail,
trots off, turns, stares,

trots, stops, stares
three more times before the willows

swallow him. I am rooted under clouds
ripping in winds too high to hear,

that other eye heaving in the heart.