Reading the fresh stamps of pig tracks
in mud, the loops, diagonals, here
a mother and her calf, I wonder
can I trace my own path, straight
at times, then turning back, footfalls that led
to swamp, or suddenly stop
at the base of a tree trunk—
lifted by wings or jaws.
Can I spot the places I bedded down,
trees girdled in lean winter months
all the indigestibles: bones and fur coughed up,
tally the tactics of stealth, flight
that brought me safely here, heels
sinking their signatures into soft mud.
3 comments:
Bren, I love this! (A quibble... when you're referring to the calf, do you still mean pigs? In that case, I think it might have to be piglet.)
I like the questioning, especially sans question mark, and also the sense of mystery/danger in this piece. I particularly like "lifted by wings or jaws"
Kerry I read it as here a pig, there a cow (everywhere a chick chick)...
Bren, I loved this too..."heels
sinking their signatures into soft mud."
Thanks for the quibble. I meant pig, so I might want to change it, though it seems to work as both pig and cow. I'll think on it. Thanks for the comments.
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