Getting Scared
Tending our fire in the oil drum, we felt
that second earthquake begin. Near dawn it was,
when everything stills. To be safe, we had
slept in a field. We felt a long slow wave
in the earth. It wasn't the stars that moved, but ourselves,
in time to a dance the dead could feel. Our fire
stirred where it cooled. Sparks whirled up.
Crawling along by a breath at a time, we tried to
get low; we tried to sight across level earth
near dawn and let the time tell us about how
to be alive in the grass, the miles, the strangeness,
with only the sun looking back from the other end of light.
We moved out as far as we could. "Forever," we thought,
"if we breathe too hard it will all be gone."
We spread our arms out wide on the ground
and held still. We set out for that cave we knew
above a stream, where early sunlight reaches
far back, willows all around, and clams in the river
for the taking. And we prayed for that steady event
we had loved so long without knowing it, our greatest
possession—the world when it didn't move.
William Stafford