Shshshsh.
You are frozen,
listening,
and the animal moves beneath you,
articulating,
haunches gathering,
uncurling
in the singeing early morning frost
where the forest meets the railroad tracks,
but the snap of twigs
like rifle-shot in the empty air
seems far, 
almost on ice.
Some part of you, similarly,
is unaware
of how the black twigs snap back into your face
or the hushed chill about you
	only the line where you and the animal meet
	and the movement rotates,
	filling your limbs,
	fluid.
This is excruciating,
the way your chest is arabesqueing,
stretching across the thin crack
of dawn
unsure, this footing on ice,
but the movement is
forward is
breaking is
is . . . is . . . is.
Icicles melt
and the forest hisses like a train.