A Walk at Night
To walk of a night in the woods just as dusk settles,
when it is just getting too dark to see well.
A tinge of fear occupies the walk.
Dwelling on this tinge of fear is
a thrill; I admit, it is only for the fun of it.
Because it is not all that real
in this very well travelled wood.
I often meditate alone
on a particular hilltop in this wood
too high and difficult for a casual stroll, and
I find my mind wandering to the thought of danger
behind me not infrequently. I cannot help but wonder if
there is a cougar about. They have been sighted on
exceedingly rare occasions. I enjoy
the thought knowing how unlikely such an
occurrence would be.
On the evening that I have begun this writing,
as I leave the woods behind and set on my
way down the final hill, my car some distance off, I see in
the sand before me the dismembered fore-limb of a fully grown
deer. The black hoof, the grey-brown hide stretched
over white bone — it is dry and weather-worn, and
I can’t help but wonder what has
been watching me that I have not yet seen.
What comes of a deer in it’s old age,
even in a wood as tame as this?
