They must fear us the way we fear snakes— poisonous and skulking in the brush, a creature so low to the ground we think we could trample it before it strikes. & aren’t humans a history recorded somewhere in elephant
Daughter at Eighteen
Looking back, I’ve caught her in mid-air, the girl in this picture. What’s left of summer— loose gold in an upsurge of hair, a scalp-bounced, tree-ward, throng drawn all the way from her soles against the snap-back, shallow give of