COUGAR SIGN IN PALO DURO CANYON

I know you're here from signs you left 
old or fresh. Fur shrouding a prickly 
pear thorn, half-buried black scat 
still soft with white jawbones and flecks 
of ribs. And there in the mud from last 
night's rain, the round pads,
no claws, big as my hand.

Spores and seeds like these sprout 
ancient memories that slow my pace.
I walk forward then backward like Janus of the Canyons,
a Yanaomamo hunter stalked in the jaguar 
jungle with a mask strapped to the back 
of my head. True eyes watching, false eyes 
hoping to fool, now frozen like a fawn, 
knowing that to run could trip the prey 
reflex. To the hungry, food on hoof 
or foot makes no difference.

We're close enough to catch the sweet 
or must of each other's scent. But our embrace 
isn't certain - the heat of your breath, the rake 
of your claws, the weight of you hanging from my neck.
This is only the heartbeat of fear,
no blood, no flesh, just empty fear 
and you no farther away than a scream,
no farther away than a doe's bleat.

I leave the canyon, removed from the food chain
but still consumed, you in your world,
I in mine. We crossed paths,
drank from the same stream, shat 
beneath the same cedar, but still
a thin veil keeps us apart.

I will finish this life looking for you,
blue eyes deep into green and gold 
eyes, the long tooth home 
at last inside the longing skull.


© 2001 by Richard W. Todd

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