It moves like a deer's reflection on a pond, without

you knowing what it is, that thing

you half-believe in:

tall and thin, it slips into the

kitchen to hover around the coffeemaker.

Mostly silent, built of echoes,

fed on water, with intimations

of ghosts and kittens.

It is a dinosaur with feathers,

you see that now,

and eater of vegetables,

one sharp tooth near its nostril,

a tooth with which it exited its own egg,

an idea that it might raid other nests.

You thought to kick it,

but it hasn't murdered you yet,

so return the favor.

Your boot would only weakly

copy the beast's cracking of the ordered spheres.

A tertium quid, the beast was,

before number were invented.

If it does not belong here, it will pass,

so part your waters,

step aside,

let it move without incident.

You are always something other, but your face

doesn't have to freeze this way.

Hatch. Evolve. Brew coffee. Speak.