When I am done with all this work
no one sees me
slip into my sealskin,
turn, turn,
down in the dark water
chasing the scattered sunlight
and the crystal mountains.
When I am done with all this work
no one sees me
stretch into my feathered wings,
rise, rise,
into the clear morning
shaping the summer air
with patterned dances.
When I am done with all this work,
this strange chamaeleon transparency,
this leaving aside the name, the feeling,
no one sees me
slide into my rough grey coat,
weave, weave,
through the forest,
climbing the frozen hillside.
When I am done
no one sees me
howling at the moon.
Jan 16 95
