At the end of winter
squirrels and coons forage
at the wood line, the fox
bounces by with a blue jay in his grin,
and a possum on our plowed driveway
looks so pale my daughter believes
she’s seen a ghost. This morning
a bobcat sits in the meadow
like an Egyptian statue,
the way I do with patients,
just another critter
with my hairless white coat
dragging on the ground,
two short legs raising me
high enough to see a hungry world.
And I make my muted calls,
run down whatever paths are cleared,
the smell of death in my nostrils,
praise on my lips
for any healing the earth might offer.
