Dream with Elk

by Z. T. Corley

I dream the hill where the shadows of elk
traverse without the elk and the memory
of motion rings like a church bell
calling the herd back. Among their group,
a mother and calf. I can see their faces
bathed in light, long as the silences
between the living and the dead.
I want to touch again their dark hair,
hear the insistent voices of their hearts,
and run alongside them like a river.
Before I can lift hand or voice, she disappears
with her child, and I know what it is
to be an orphan, listening to the voices
of the hill. The sound exists as wind.