The small animal of my body curls
in comfort at the sound of the rain,
curls in the back seat of my car when
I’m off the trail and clouds unfurl,
and I’m dry, and the rain falls about.
The small animal of my body does not
know I have somehow become an adult.
He does not know to hide pleasure or doubt.
The small animal of my body likes
to watch in the gentle rain how the wrens
still flit. He likes to think about their courage.
He likes to watch them after a long hike
when he does not think. He lives outside time.
They calm him, relax his muscles to porridge.