Sometimes we wandered for miles

during that time of year

when the grizzlies sauntered from hibernation

sleepily impatient with hunger

and too close to where we collected things;

their fetid slyness heavy and unseen behind the waking evergreens of spring.

Once, I dropped an armful of dead branches

upon hearing the winter-induced intoxication of

the Mountain Queen herself.

She shuffled and heaved the unsteadiness of her trunk forward

as an eager cub followed inoffensively in her footprints.

My brother and I left our bodies behind

we ran so hard.

And then other times,

the woods were silent for years

when the deer were mostly gone and quietly spaced.

Even the elegance of an irregular buck tiptoeing on snow-dampened leaves

did nothing to disturb the stillness.

We were often found crouched by the rotten wood of the old corral

investigating petrified prints of worms and pocket-sized shells

when our sister came to find us.

My sister was always beautiful when she came to find us;

the flush of her cheeks and the tangled urgency in the red weaves of her hair

brought human life into the world we were meant to belong.