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"Hello, little fox" -
He stares at me, would love to talk,
but has to run.
Between fence slats
half a rabbit apart slips,
unsqueezed, a rabbit.
Moving past quickly
so that petrified rabbit
can come to life.
From the roadside
coyote looks at us...walks away
not too fast.
Self-confidence? We didn't see to worry him - or
that's what he wanted us to think.
Javelina in headlights -
huge sad-eyed fuzz face
on tiny legs.
Javelina - a wild pig. This one was beside a road
at Big Bend National Park on the Rio Grande, West Texas.
A mouse,
eyes huge and round - always -
with fear?
Firecrackers? - No,
men pounding shingles. A squirrel
runs the other way.
A car speeds past -
in front of it streaks a squirrel...
and he's SAFE AT HOME!!!
Noise – someone coming up the hill...
Leaves crunch closer...no one...wait...no...
squirrels!
Squirrel on bare elm furls
and unfurls his tail, cheeks puffed.
Dead, they look ratty.
Foxes in the woods behind us.
Haven't seen a squirrel
for months.
Stopping so as not
to scare that squirrel,
noticing pine smell.
Unexpected bonus of suddenly standing still. You
notice things.
Crossing the street,
quick ripples
of squirrel.
The clouds break open.
Sunbeams streak up each tree
like squirrels.
The sun reached the bases of trees first and zipped
upwards as the clouds opened.
Chipmunk -- stopped,
so still, darting, so fast,
but doesn't see me.
Mare, tale hitched aside,
rubs on a post her thick-lipped
gray-leather cunt.
Is this a common sight? I don't know. It's what
I saw on a walk past a pasture (not towards a future?)
one day. "Cunt" is usually considered a vulgar
word, but it is certainly the correct sound for what
I saw, a non-erotic, matter-of-fact sight.
Cows grazing, some with
red tags on their ears.
Why?
Skunk
No need to put that odor
in writing. Already
It's in black and white.
Originally it was "in writhing," not
"in writing", a pun to suggest the movement
of a skunks body as he emits his odor and the response
of those who get a whiff, but for so short a poem, it
seemed one piece of word-play - the skunks black and
white coat and my attempt to put it into writing ("black
and white") in this haiku - was already too much.
Bucket of trout --
dim squirms through a surface
full of clouds.
Fish,
about to collide, always
swerve.
Trout leap into the air
with such obvious joy that
we must catch them.
The joy of the hunt, of success, etc. I think part
of it is an attempt to share in their apparent joy and
energy, to make it ours. Eating them does that in another
way, but the catching is probably a fuller appropriation
- our motions paralleling theirs, our pulls resisting
theirs.
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