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In the Cloud Forest
Day after day, the rain is a kind
of sunshine, patterned and reliable,
soothing cool against the face.
It softly strums my bending body as my hands
part the blue lupine, the avalanche lilies,
I find cougar prints but no cougar.
It's morning and the calls begin.
The forest is a babble of which tanager,
what warbler, jay, is where.
Everyone's out to make their living.
Some give warnings, others
direction to the feasting, to the love.
A marmot whistle out-duels the wind's moan,
The perpetrator perches on a rock,
surveys what it thinks is the world.
It looks out for cougar, trembling, fearing
quick and brutal death. For an hour or so,
it becomes my unintentional bait.
But that elusive cat doesn't show.
My body's damp with its saliva.
My heart growls with its hunger.
But I find cougar prints and no cougar.
Mist, crouched, silent, stalking,
becomes its closest living relative. |
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