Critters

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.