We are the swift, blurry creatures
running through the dark, hurrying toward
that crescent-shaped ‘amen.’
Fur-covered or not, we are not just
the bite of the unknown.
Our bodies were meant for some kind
of woods, after all.
We are not that
which lived and died unsatisfied,
Paw prints. The cold air is its own
religion. Indigo streaks of light shine
on the snow, like salty
tears on fur. In passing, you dry your face
on whatever leaves remain.