ANOTHER WALK DOWN THE SAME ROAD
I don’t understand “routine.”
Something crossed the road, here.
I don’t know what, yet. I don’t know when—
yesterday at sunset, or in the dark, or at dawn—
that’s what I’m trying to discover.
If you had the sense, I’d tell you.
If you would stop pulling and walk nicely,
you would not miss countless meadow voles,
chipmunks crouching in the roadside brushpiles,
the red squirrel peering from a hole in the dead pine,
the owl lumbering through the trees.
Stop. Sit. Wait.
Even now, in the woods
at the edge of the long hay field, something stirs.