La Grande Motte

From here, earth is rent,
a half-globe of peaks chop the sky like teeth.
My flanks quiver—mountain goat,
constellation of flesh and fur, I leap
with laughing bleat and three-toed feet
to the cotton gauze crag half a mile up,
vault to the next with a tail-twitch,
prance and nibble from ridge to ridge
sure-footed, light as flurries.
I fold my legs to snooze on a white flank,
a breath of snow, rock, light and sky.

 
NaPoWriMo 2005, April 4