Unafraid to Be Known
If a deer doesn’t run away,
but walks toward you.
If you put your camera down
and your heart quiets enough
the sparrows in the stripped thickets
start to sing again.
If suddenly, every time you leave your house
you find antlers on the ground.
If you see a falcon strike a flicker from the sky
laying late in bed on a weekday morning, pick up
yellow feathers on the lawn to prove
you didn’t dream it.
If your dreams draw you on a night without wind
to the north tip of an island at sundown, where,
on a flat pond just a few steps from the restless ocean,
a swan glides through fire on water, ripples from its wake
rocking a skiff moored in the center like a cradle
that holds the sinking light for just those
few seconds we need to praise it, long,
full breaths, saying yes without words.
Then you are known by the great dream of the earth as one
who calms the ocean, laying down at the edge without fear