Walking in the Desert

I remember cool dark tunnels,

freshly dug earth cradling us as we slept.

I remember my coyote-voice, and the run

and the hunt and the hunt-song.

When I was scaled and legless,

my tongue was my secret, my prize.

When I was a raven I knew bugs

and eggs and tricks and twigs.

When I was human it took some

getting used to. I crouched on the ground

and ate with my hands, howled in cars

and growled at strangers.

But oh, my beautiful thumbs

grasped needle and thread, baked

cornbread in an iron skillet,

planted honeysuckle and thyme.

I gave birth to a boy. Carried him

by the scruff of his neck to a burrow,

sang to him under a blanket

of stars and wind.