Post by MoonyLuna on Jan 23, 2009 13:12:45 GMT -5
A sunlit September morning. Bright balsam-light
planing through poles of Sitka spruce,
ambering under a honeycombed canopy
to tan the leaflitter, its shag of needles,
shale of beech. Now a sound, soft shush
like finest rain, a light spray through the trees;
but there is no rain, no wind. I look up
through the rough furze of spruce
to see a definite motion, a purposeful
swing. The cause imprints momentarily
against pale yellow glare as it scuttles
along a branch: a lithe weasel-like
body with a brush of tail that's thinned
by the combing of light. It headlongs
up the trunk, then trapezes across
to the next tree and is followed
by another, then another. The trees'
pine-green plumage swishes and sweeps
as three red squirrels make a vertical
slalom to ford the air. I curdle with pleasure:
a remnant of ancient fauna survives
in a hybrid plantation. The lead squirrel
descends to the floor, glances back:
pixie head, monocular gaze
holding me briefly as its forelegs
splay beyond the hunch of back,
the feather of tail. I flick for the others
and when I look again the squirrel is gone.
They are all gone. The woods are silent.
Copyright
Mary Montague
planing through poles of Sitka spruce,
ambering under a honeycombed canopy
to tan the leaflitter, its shag of needles,
shale of beech. Now a sound, soft shush
like finest rain, a light spray through the trees;
but there is no rain, no wind. I look up
through the rough furze of spruce
to see a definite motion, a purposeful
swing. The cause imprints momentarily
against pale yellow glare as it scuttles
along a branch: a lithe weasel-like
body with a brush of tail that's thinned
by the combing of light. It headlongs
up the trunk, then trapezes across
to the next tree and is followed
by another, then another. The trees'
pine-green plumage swishes and sweeps
as three red squirrels make a vertical
slalom to ford the air. I curdle with pleasure:
a remnant of ancient fauna survives
in a hybrid plantation. The lead squirrel
descends to the floor, glances back:
pixie head, monocular gaze
holding me briefly as its forelegs
splay beyond the hunch of back,
the feather of tail. I flick for the others
and when I look again the squirrel is gone.
They are all gone. The woods are silent.
Copyright
Mary Montague