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.