Evening and their calls echo
down these hills of oak, eucalyptus,
screams, high pitched, urgent–
we give them words
instinct, warning, longing.
Safe behind closed doors
in our dens or beds, we who live
with our own hungers imagine
their sudden pounce, bared teeth.
One steps across a gravel path in broad noon-light,
silent, gray on strong brown legs,
his tail black-tipped, ears pointed up.
He paces behind his shadow,
then disappears down a grassy slope.
Does he note our sound and scent,
sense us beside, behind? Mark our presence
on land and hardscape he knows well
where freeway meets a city park,
condos meet arroyos?
Opportunistic, clever some call
this species that survives, endures,
deft hunters of rodents we despise,
gleaners of what’s fallen, scrapped.
Wild creatures who’ve staked a claim
to woods and brush and bushy lots,
spaces not built on yet, yet we call ours.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 5.
Beth Paulson lives in Ouray County, Colorado where she has led the Poetica Workshop for over a dozen years, co-directs Poetry at the Tavern, and serves as Poet Laureate. Her poems have been widely published nationally and have four times been nominated for Pushcart Prizes. Luminous (Kelsay Books, 2021) is her sixth published collection.
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