that he cannot name.

When he was young,

when he followed

his mother and slept

in the cradle of her legs and stomach

and the grass was a dark green,

always wet, even after the sun

had reached as far as it could reach

and to touch her fur was to touch

a crackling stalk,

he knew no words

for this world

and loved it without

language.

His eyes finally move, dry, caught

in the wind as it lifts an eagle

across the river, searching, knowing

the only way to love is without words.