WITHIN

WITHIN

I know of things,
says Tortoise, that
I cannot do because
of certain physical
conditions. I cannot,
for example, lope
across the desert
floor with Coyote’s
ease and grace.
Instead, I plod. Nor
can I sit back
on my haunches,
gazing up into
the night sky, like
Coyote, nor bay
like he does at
the moon. Still,
I do not kill. And
I have not observed
Coyote draw his
outer extremities
back into his shell
as I do, retreating
into that silent,
dark serenity
in which I never
fail to hear the vast,
mysterious and
endless music
of the universe
that lies within.