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| where woodland creatures diverge |
I come from the house,
the one by itself with the wood smoke rising
from the old brick chimney—you remember—
you can see it there across the broken field,
broken by winter half done,
those are my tracks, you can see where I walk,
my tracks and the dog's, and once you top the hill
you can see where the coyotes walk, too, and the fox,
one fox, I think, a smaller print, each back step
exactly in the front step, such orderly beings,
the dog and I are orderly, too, I'd say, I mean
we walk the same snow-crusted field each day
on the same path leading into the woods,
the dog nosing under the flattened asterbones
in the same pockets as yesterday
where the white-footed mice live,
following their own small routines,
and here at the edge of the woods you can see
where the deer join the path, living their lives,
all of us here living our lives, sometimes sharing the path,
sometimes diverging, each with our purposes,
the deer and the fox and the mice more in the present
with fewer distractions, accepting things as they are
without wondering how, or why, or what if—
they belong more than me, I'll confess
I've felt like a visitor as long as I can remember,
these creatures fit better, more at home, the paths
they make better suited to the contours of the earth,
and accompanied, surely, by fewer ghosts.
Don't you think that is so? I think you'd agree.
What did you think?
What would you have thought?
Is it cold being wind?
How pretty with the snow flying in you.
