Visitation

I’d never seen an otter here before

in these years of quiet retirement;

still haven’t, only his tracks,

but it was enough for me to seek him out,

hoping for a glimpse of him bounding away

as he’d arrived, tracking across the lake

still groaning under a heavy layer of ice and snow

this early spring morning, an awkward leap and slide,

making his way across to the shore where I live.

Or perhaps I’d see him peeking out from where he lay

hidden below my dock, still snow-covered and stowed

away for winter’s safe keeping, him safely

out of sight there and cautious, guarded.

But I found him gone, in the morning,

his departure visible in fresh tracks,

little claws marks left in the snow

and a slide down the bank on the other side

and away, back through the woods to the bog beyond,

gone on this cold spring day, cold and wind-blown.

I have been visited and nurtured,

touched by a comforting closeness

of another being sharing his life with me,

though unseen except for the tracks of his passing.