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The Weasel

January 27, 2018

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 think time

is not so linear, but perhaps

it was the weasel itself,

reaching out.


Sly weaver of magic.


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