A Longing for Thoreau

I hold fast to my walking

stick as I leave

the beaten path to follow

my own trail

Into only partially familiar woods.

There is a part of me that

hunkers down

Here, within the gloom of autumn

or later, the promise of spring

Tilt back my head

Shake my mane and

Sniff the air.

I crouch beside the creek flowing here, simple and without a care.

A glimpse of a whitetail yearling

Frozen in the tangled underbrush

The soft call the cardinal sings to his mate

The reflection of us all in the stream

In this late November dawn

Nirvana

the coyote

the cardinal

the whitetail

and me…

 

©Nancilynn Saylor

November 2017