Tracking

There. The single coarse hair
plucked wild from your side, waving
imperceptibly with each small breeze,
a tiny flag
telling your direction. Lips chapping
in November’s chill, I climb through
Beartown Forest. You, coyote,
are the trail I follow.

You, the wild.

There. A pivot of wolfen heel
caught in the flesh of mud. One instant
of you. I stop, tracing my finger
through the bowled rain where you stood,
whispering,
I know you were here.

This, the air you own. Prey
on running breath, turned
by the turns of every ridge,
slopes of your interior, sudden eternity
of approach.

Slake of river.

Coughed out, picked bones
lay scattered on the granite outcrop,
the understory open here
to view and height. The overhead cirrus
softly combed by wind, and red.

Suddenly, drop-jawed, slammed to knees,
I am a mute prayer to late afternoon light
and all that I want to know.

Only when I listen
will you ever let me in.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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