We walk on the arms of the elderberries
and press their flowers into our cheeks.
There are thousands of us here
on the thin branches, and
cobwebs from the neighboring pianos, and
needles from the neighboring pine
pass the wooden spoon to twist their sap
into the mouth of the mixing bowl.
Our smells thread the deer’s nostrils
and with their eyelids closed,
they softly lead their families from every wood
to sniff our brew and lick our toes.
Cliff birds swoop in to pierce our batter. They rise together
and pull us up to stretch our juices across their loom.
And though they row their sky oars steady,
we capsize.
Our brownish-red liqueur pours deep
into the clay syllable below.
The night-cooking is filled with fire and we dry
like herbs from antlers. The wind chews us.
When the deer open their eyes we waterfall
onto the tongue of the bees like the pollen we are.
And from there, the swarm takes us home
to feed their lover.