They pranced a sloping course,
Crowns uncovered, silver hidden,
The way jays fly north or dancers
Converge across dark rooms.
And in that last dawn before April
Urged itself into strawberries
She broke fast on cool dewed moss,
Listening to him breathe.
A path laid over and again,
Out far enough to fling them
Past those gold-woke, aching hills.
Nathan Woods, editor/overlord