Motion

We get frantic
in our loving.
The distance between
Santa Fe and Albuquerque
shifts and changes.
It is moments;
it is years.
I am next to you
in skin and blood
and then I am not.
I tremble and grasp
at the edges of
myself; I let go
into you.
A crow flies over
towards St. Michaels,
opens itself out
into wind.
And I write it to you
at this moment
never being able to get
the essence

Harjo, Joy. "Motion." She Had Some Horses. NY: Thunder's Mouth Press, (c)1983, p. 54.