They are remembering when they were horses,
When they could outrun anything,

and their hooves, when the bones of their lives
were fused into one,

and cherry blossoms, and a high mountain stream
that shocked their large hearts still.

They were remembering a day
before days, when their fingers weren’t

webbed with bread dough, their breasts didn’t ache
from generosity. All this

as they flail their long braids, shriek (imagine
a gyrfalcon in its killing