The Leash

It loosens, time to time,
Passages when flying
Feels a fait accompli,

When one unwinds the slack
As if there were no hold
At all, more like floating

Than running or falling.
I stood, once, on a bridge
Over Clark Fork River

That I would cross again
At least a hundred times
Under all conditions

Of inner and outer
Weather, whether smoke-fouled
By Bitterroot wildfires,

Shellacked with dark brown ice,
Or sweet with renewed spring.
That first time, I was new

And I had left the world
As I'd understood it,
Having warned nobody

And arrived, bleary-eyed
From the East, with my cash,
All I had, in my boot,

An acceptance letter
In my pocket, nothing
Else except a backpack,

And it was June and warm
With a hint of a breeze
On which I floated free.