She sniffs the poison air
cautious as spring's birth
nose as always the first.
A soft shoot of tongue tastes
ash on the globe of winds,
sap rises to her eye’s bud.
Each fine bristle of her fur
stirs as the planet’s balance
tilts, turning again to the sun.
Before a paw print forward
she glances back, a return
into her shroud of a burrow.
deep in a star-spark of eyes
left behind in the darkness,
so much depends upon this.