Nature Lives Here Where We Live

Nature lives here, up north, where we live,

crossing the highways and byways and back

country roads we call our own, carved out

in our wanderings, or creating their own trails

through the trees and underbrush, the open fields

grown tall in summer or buried deep in snow,

trails crossing over our yards, passing through,

or perhaps openly grazing on our lawns

and gardens, warmed by the sun, or resting

in moonlight, highlighted against the darkness:

the fox and her kits, an early morning forage,

an evening’s stroll; the deer, a small group, white

tails high, bounding on spindly legs, spooked

and fleeing; the otter fresh from a swim, or a beaver

pausing; a coyote or wolf, rare, more heard than seen,

watchful and cautious; squirrels, red and grey or flying,

tree to tree scurrying, the mice and the rodents who live here,

warm and safe underground; birds by the score, the chickadee

and nuthatch, wren and finch and robin, the larger jays,

doves, woodpeckers, great and small, pounding for grubs

and seed, an eagle circling overhead, and a summer mallard

and her brood of ducklings newly hatched; the loons, diving,

call out on a summer’s eve, and a flock of turkeys

around Thanksgiving, flaunt themselves as survivors;

and the moose we thought we heard last night crossing our yard.

 

And this we have learned; this world is not ours

to do with as we wish, taking what we want

and leaving behind destruction and ruin, waste and

abuse, nor theirs alone, but a world shared, a communal

wilderness, a more diverse community of lives, mammal

and bird, reptile and fish, amphibia; perhaps, though,

it is they, nature’s wild ones, who have the greater birthright,  

a freedom we lack in our civilized lives, fighting ourselves

to lay claim to that which we cannot take, cannot call our own.