One March Animal's Desire

Warm days, we punch the snow with our footsteps,
leaving the nights' cool mercury to harden a crust.
Better to travel early, before the sun sends down
the weight of its heart. If we were otters—so light and slick—
surface wouldn't matter. We'd slide, equally happy, over
white wallow, ice, or berm.

Slung so low, we would not long for a pelvic vault,
conceive ourselves the surrogates of a god.
Heads up, one arm wrapped around heaven,
the other aping the ground, we're tread-fools
of evolution. It's not that great, this awkward posture
that lumbers, drills, and pocks. Texture,

some claim, but I'd as soon leave a glaze
or gentle indentation. I want to pass through smoothly,
no belt at the hip, no buckle. One tawny hair
in my wake where my belly runnels the snow,
or a slender whisker dropped in woods
as I make my way to the river.

Copyright © 2004 Anne Coray All rights reserved
from Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission