What must be the last weathervane in Delaware
turns on its trusty, its unrusting pivot—
above the arrow, a harried copper hare
forever overtaken by the wind
that spooks her north-northeast and beats her there.
We feel the storm press flush against our backs
and run its breathy fingers through our hair.
We’re aware of the wisest direction to run.
We have always been running. It’s why we’re still here.