Fred Dale



The good walk is how we are, the stiff traction
of our boots, the sound of earth punching back.
No different than reindeer bending their flight
patterns, banking the air’s whistling pushback,
where mid-pack’s safe, a castle for Kings. On
the BBC nature show, lions aim for the edges,
culling the herd. Fever in their teeth, torque of
neck, killing pixelates its matinee on the deer’s
black marble eyes, a store of blood to feed the
cowards. They remember the branches of trees,
messes of sun, heather beds, and their children,
while the bullies flip through their pocket book
bodies, getting at soft places, the comfort food.
I tell the older of us, one will occupy the maw
that the other might keep up the good walk, but
when she turns to you the fullness of her neck,
the tension of her skin, there is no more naked
than this.