Sometimes in the open you look up
Where birds go by, or just nothing,
And wait. A dim feeling comes
You were like this once, there was air,
And quiet; it was by a lake, or
Maybe a river you were alert
As an otter and were suddenly born
Like the evening star into wide
Still worlds like this one you have found
Again, for a moment, in the open.
Something is being told in the woods: aisles of
Shadow lead away; a branch waves;
A pencil of sunlight slowly travels its
Path. A withheld presence almost
Speaks, but then retreats, rustles
A patch of brush. You can feel
The centuries ripple generations
Of wandering, discovering, being lost
And found, eating, dying, being born.
A walk through the forest strokes your fur,
The fur you no longer have. And your gaze
Down a forest aisle is a strange, long
Plunge, dark eyes looking for home.
For delicious minutes you can feel your whiskers
Wider than your mind, away out over everything.