Passage # 40

1.

Something is watching me.

Big-padded

four-toed

bobcat tracks in the new snow.

They veer off the ridge ski trail

looking for lunch.

2.

Something is shadowing me.

I edge to a stop

on Dot Nebel.

From underneath

my upturned white ski edge

a vole appears,

nestling,

still

peeking out for protection

from the saw-whet owl.

Neither of us moves.

3.

Something is ignoring me.

Hunching its way up

a birch in winter,

a porcupine

is in full view

of us chairlift riders.

No fisher can climb

such thin branches.

4.

Something is curious about me.

Catching my breath,

I pause

on an unfrequented ski trail.

An ermine pops up

out of a hollow tree.

White fur,

tail black-tipped .

We take each other’s measure

a good five minutes,

eye-to-eye.

It descends into the snow

in hunt of rabbits and voles.

5.

Something is attracted to me.

Like a kitchen broom,

the tail of a porcupine

grooves the snow.

The track stops by a tree.

I look up.

A prickly blob

coiled against the cold

evades the eternal fisher

that can flip it over

and rake its unquilled belly.

When I take off my gloves,

fumbling with my camera,

Porky smells and craves the salt

on my sweating hands.

6.

Something is ignoring me.

Two coyotes bound

through deep snow.

They’re racing each other

for the rabbit they have detected.

The gray vole

is as still as a stone.

7.

Something is wary of me.

Flattened grasses,

pressed like soft sheets,

are last night’s bed

for a wintering deer.

Does it know the hunting season

is over?

8.

Something is snorting at me.

Those are really large tracks.

I’m glad it’s not the rutting season.

Shoot!

There’s her calf

just behind that tree.

Back away s-l-o-w-l-y

and no one will get hurt.

Mama Moose wins.

9.

I’m such a confident tracker.

The new snow reveals

the secrets of the forest.

My Pocket Guide to New Hampshire

Animal Tracks

pictures and measures

all the dainty tracks.

Squirrels, but not their nests.

Rabbits, not their warren.

Turkeys, not their roost.

Feathers, not the turkey

devoured by the bobcat.

Ski tracks, not the home of the human intruder

unarmed,

marking my own scent

against a convenient tree.

Not smelling any other creature

not hearing the vole scratching

as it zigzags under the snow,

not feeling the rush of wind

as the great horned owl

pounces.

10.

I’m a transient here in the woods

and at home

and on this wild planet,

my metrical existence

and careful categories

soon to be erased,

like the animal prints

under driving snows.

For now, though,

something is watching me.