By Doug Bolling
These woods and autumn smoke over low hills, the ponds of lazing bass and bluegill, symmetry of turtles hungry for what swims there. Call me change in the weather, label me seeker in chief of all things transient and therefore lovely therefore real. No matter. What’s in a name but so much wind, a noun ripped from somebody’s dictionary. Here where trees deepen and shadow spills over rock and fern I see the fox. We have met before across the spaces granted, the eons that have made us what we are. He rests behind a downed tree, a barricade saying be there for me but not too close. Friendship requires a certain distance, a keeping things equal. The sleek coat now reddish now tawny depending on slant of light through the pines or what sight chooses to see. His eyes hold mine. Brothers I say to myself. Kinship of blood, fear, lust, the primal rites of survival, perdurance. These precious moments wherein two strangers meet and meet again, each a sovereign tatter amid the world’s rage hell bent rush to doom or somewhat. I salute you across the spatters of sudden snow. Tell me your songs and I will answer.
Photo by Samuel Ferrara