Two sagebrush tails,
golden-eyed, startled to find another on the trail
this late at night.
Tongue twisting sweet as hearts-blood,
lean fangs, disdain, and stalking soft:
flanks gaunt and lovely.
You walk your own way, and I have chanced to meet you on it.
Under and over, light-footed,
skeins of sinew and bone,
woven through my arms as the eye of a needle—
We met under canyon walls.