Where the Forest Moves with the Sun
An echo comes sighing its way down the valley.
Was it the cry of a bird in the savage air
or a deer caught on a ledge
beneath the panther’s stare?
(I know its tail; have seen it twitch against the boulder)
Do not give yourself to the river below
where the forest moves with the sun,
do not, but give him a final blow,
stagger up against him when he comes
filling the sky; throw your weight on him,
pin him to the rock, stag blood of old
fight that protuberant glow of eyes.