The Weasel
Before she left, holding her thermos of hot coffee,
into the predawn,
I said, May you see
a long-tailed weasel. That slender, lithe, little carnivore, made of equal parts play and mischief, which had eluded me all these years. So, later when she said, Guess what,
I knew it meant she had seen one among the grass. Laying claim to that impulse to have said what I did would be indulgence - I was only a kind of vessel For who can trace
the origins of intuition? Sometimes, I t