A fire no more than warmth beside you.
A lover's argument;
He's moved his bag into the dark.
A clearing domed with trees;
In the shelter there, no moon.
In the dark, they pass by:
The click of claw on stone,
The brush of fur through leaves,
The hunter's sigh,
A momentary hint of other warmth.
A new, moist breeze stirs on your skin,
Just there, where lip turns red and in,
Just there, across the grain of sleeping lash,
Just there, a breath like feathers on your skin.
In the palm of your hand,
Gentle as trickling water,
The muzzle of a bear, rank and wild,
The lip damp on your fingers,
Breath hot on your wrist,
Soft fur that clothes
the tooth and bone,
The wet flesh of the nose.
I am that hunting breeze;
I am the breath in your hand.