Soft Impressions

Following his footsteps back,

     broad and flat and pointing

          down my drive,

we discovered where he appeared,

     just as he had disappeared,

          soundless and unseen, undetected

but for his footprints, these soft impressions left

     in the sand and gravel, the only sign

          that he had passed this way

and touched our lives in his passing.

My Wife Goes to Battle

My wife goes to battle against the squirrels

again this year, as she does every year.

“Number 26,” she proclaims, as she rounds them up,

one squirrel at a time into little cages,

and transports them 10-12 miles down the road, exiled

far enough away, yet still near food and water, habitable land, 

left in the company of other refugees she’s rounded up

and relocated, for she wishes them no harm.

Yet, she knows the damage a lone squirrel can do

inside an empty camp, the chewing, the mess made,

their ability to enter the smallest hole

when no one is about, escaping through that same

hole at the sound of us returning; so

she has me scouring the eaves and far reaches of the attic

and floorboards to fill the smallest of holes, replacing worn

boards, “just in case.” I am the only other soldier

in her campaign, drafted, conscripted, enlisting

for my own peace of mind, just following orders.

Though, only once have I ever seen a squirrel in our camp,

and he too scared to stay, to settle in,

evoking his squatters’ right alongside us living there.

Still, I hear that squirrels removed will return

to nests and home, territorial, some internal sense,

but good solder that I am, unquestioning,

I load him into the car and take him down the road

to begin his new life, or his long journey back,

back to camp to be proclaimed, “number 27.”

Dusk

Dusk.

Just enough light to hide things in the shadows,

no clear lines nor shapes visible in the darkness

and its variations of gray and black.

Still, we saw something there, thought we did,

pretty sure, there beside the road, looming, a spectral form

materializing as a moose standing in the dusky light.

He calmly stepped onto the road, to cross, pausing, though,

unconcerned, unafraid, as we slowed to a stop, cautious;

for we’ve heard the tales or seen, experienced perhaps,

moose and motorcar meeting, a mangle of man and metal.

Yet, it is for him we feared, not ourselves.

Other cars might not see him, know him

like we who live here do, skittish and unmoving,

these cars demanding their right of way, not slowing,

nor stopping, as we have paused ourselves to watch

and stare, awestruck, still, always.

So we fear for him, unconcerned, his life 

and beauty lost on a dark road at dusk, blameless

as we and suffering blame merely for crossing here,

nothing more, a specter looming unafraid, dark and beautiful.

And our hearts rose as he turned,

saw no danger in us, and entered the woods

to disappear into the shadows, gray and black,

variations of darkness at evening’s dusk.

Other Folk

It’s possible the woods

     are peopled with other folk,

          fairies and elves, gnomes, a troll perhaps,

              so small or quiet or hidden

                   that we cannot see nor hear them.

Yet, we can feel their presence,

     sense someone, something there

          at the rustle of a leaf,

              a branch snapping, loud and sharp, unexplained,

                   or a shrill call unrecognized

in the animal lore we learned,

     those stories told by our parents, and theirs,

          living here and aware as we are. Except

              now, we seem so unconcerned with the other

                   folk peopling our woods, small and quiet,

hidden. But in the far reaches

     of our years, back to childhood,

          when things were simple, easily explained,

              and we believed in the possible, in the unimagined

                   imagined, we remember them, again,

recalling who they are and where;

     for they live there still, among the trees and stones,

          watching us, secretive, their own stories

              of strange creatures told, clumsy

                   and loud, unimaginable, impossible.

We two share these woods,

     them and us, and imagination,

          each of us a creator of the other

              in the presence we feel, the stories we tell,

                   each of us brought to life, imagined and possible.