This is what my grandfather taught me:
Muku berries, you see,
are eaten only after
they have wrinkled
and turned completely black.
When the birds begin to gather, that is the sign.
We join their assembly too.

In the shadow cast by the old tree,
I could barely see my hands.
The birds pecked at the berries without a sound.
I picked them up from the ground
and tossed them toward the birds,
watching them scatter
and gather again.

From the black branches,
leaves and berries came undone
and fell.
Thinking it was rain,
I slipped beneath the great tree,
down by its feet.
Inside the hollow was familiar,
filled with the smell of earth,
and I was able to breathe out
all the breath
I had been holding.

Deep in the darkness,
two pairs of amber
saw through the intruder.
Fingers grooming the fur.
Fingers brushing away
the centipedes crawling over the body.

Fingers trying to feed me,
and I,
pretending to sleep.

I wake from the pretending.
My breath and the hollow
are talking too loudly,
so I go outside
to take in the air.
I straighten my back
and bestow
a tremendous yawn.
From the gums on my right side,
the fang that should be there
is gone.

On my tongue,
the faintest taste of salt,
and sneaker prints
leading into the earth.