This is the one where I dream myself ursine, a silent breath
of fur between pine on that ridgeline crowded with cloud.
Where grasses breach sky with emptied pods or beside
the half-eaten log ripe with nesting ants shuffling
pearly eggs lower in the cooling air, I expect to be
an absence. A quiet break between grizzled strides.
Where does fear reside, if not tucked inside
this heart swollen by the grip of rib and breastbone?
See me weather beside you and the lidless wind,
the crude lace of meadow backlit by two o’clock sun.
Those eggs pop glossy like stars against
the crimson bed of dropped branches.
Stefanie Kirby is a bilingual mother and poet residing in the Colorado foothills. She studied poetry at Lighthouse Writers Workshop and has taught writing to middle and high school students. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Nightingale & Sparrow, MORIA Literary Magazine, and Ethel Zine.