Gold in the remaining space

between the window frame and the shy-of-completely-drawn drape—

a shaft of sunlight and his squinting face.

Invisible dust juggled itself, visible in the light.

He ran his fingers through it as he did my hair.

The presence of his hand propelled the particles to new trajectories.

He told me dust is dead skin cells, loose follicles, shed pieces of ourselves

all spinning like little globes on brass rods. He told me

You don’t need to be afraid after I began to cry.

And later when he called my name, said, shhhh, come to the window,

I ran tip-toed to be beside him. Two young elk picked through the rocky dirt,

unaware of their voyeurs, until one of us made a silent noise only the animals could hear.

Startled, they froze but didn’t run because they had learned to trust

humans, gambled that we would not hurt them,

would not bury a bullet into their velvet, vulnerable sides.