by David D. Jensen
Porcupines sit in the high meadows
pulling down alfalfa blossoms,
turning into patches of dark
brush as the sun dies.
In starlight they climb
to the tallest tops
of trees and sleep late.
They dream nice dreams,
salty shovel-handle dreams.
They remember things
in a melting collage
of ice cream carton memories.
In the afternoon they stretch
and point their spines sunward.
They wash their faces
and smile
like someone in love.