A POEM
BOBCATS
I’ve always dreamt of spotting a bobcat in the wild. I imagine his eyes
locked on mine for a moment, long enough to glimpse what’s beneath;
then, with a rush and a few shaking branches, he will be gone.
The fulfillment of this dream will bring me nothing;
at the best a memory, echoing itself in spirals and blurring
its way into the past. But, I still dream it.
We walk through the ravines together. The stones clink like bones
beneath our feet. A cold breeze winds its way through the channel,
our damp clothes clinging like skin ready to be shed.
On the way back up the trail, there’s a man with a graying beard and binoculars
peering into the treetops. I tell you that when I’m sixty, I’m going
to start bird watching constantly.
My eyes will search for shimmering gems on tree branches.
I’ll be content with treasure that is never truly mine.
You accept this old man with a smile, and we’re walking slowly into the future
and towards him. He’s looking for flashing glimpses of color in a green sky,
and waiting for us catch up with him.
He’s off in the future like infinite other me’s.
If I never find the bobcat,
if I lose that sixty year old bird watcher in me,
I still want this path with you the most,
this ravine our shoes pass over without leaving a trace.
I’ve always dreamt of spotting a bobcat in the wild. I imagine his eyes
locked on mine for a moment, long enough to glimpse what’s beneath;
then, with a rush and a few shaking branches, he will be gone.
The fulfillment of this dream will bring me nothing;
at the best a memory, echoing itself in spirals and blurring
its way into the past. But, I still dream it.
We walk through the ravines together. The stones clink like bones
beneath our feet. A cold breeze winds its way through the channel,
our damp clothes clinging like skin ready to be shed.
On the way back up the trail, there’s a man with a graying beard and binoculars
peering into the treetops. I tell you that when I’m sixty, I’m going
to start bird watching constantly.
My eyes will search for shimmering gems on tree branches.
I’ll be content with treasure that is never truly mine.
You accept this old man with a smile, and we’re walking slowly into the future
and towards him. He’s looking for flashing glimpses of color in a green sky,
and waiting for us catch up with him.
He’s off in the future like infinite other me’s.
If I never find the bobcat,
if I lose that sixty year old bird watcher in me,
I still want this path with you the most,
this ravine our shoes pass over without leaving a trace.