JOHN GREY

JOHN GREY

A NIGHT WALK IN THE WOODS

The saw-whet owl

slips into dense conifer,

not shy so much

as wary of our intrusion.

Likewise, the long-tailed weasel stays out of eye-range

and the fisher releases its grip

on the surrounds

for as long as we are in its territory.

It's dark out,

the time for nocturnal animals.

But we're less ruled by the sun.

take the trails at night

if the mood strikes.

And we feel more at home with nature

than it does with us.

A coyote howls freely

from somewhere beyond the lake, the hills.

Up close is our territory

but the distance is safe from us.

SOLITARY

Twilight follows the contours of the trees,

wraps around a lone deer,

with dark, tender eyes,

who has come out of the woods

to befriend me.

I stop maybe forty yards away,

inch closer and closer.

Her coat ripples.

She can barely hide her happiness.

She’s coy though.

bows shyly as a shepherdess

but I know she’s totally infatuated

with the time of the day,

the moist food at her hoofs,

and my presence.

She is speckled light brown

with a flashing white tail.

Her throat is princess pert.

Her round black nose

breathes evenly as slowly passing time.

Any moment now,

she could trot over to me,

lick my hand,

nuzzle against my leg.

I do not understand

that her friendly gestures

are merely to distract me,

a subterfuge, to protect her fawn

that’s hidden close by.

But what do I care

if she’s merely playacting.

For me, the solitude of others

is a vacuum.

It often sucks my solitude right in.

POND LIFE IN WINTER

The water is at the mercy

of seasons piling on,

winds blowing from the north

and packing ice,

as leaves shake from the trees,

settle on the surface

until soaked up by their surrounds,

dropped to the bottom.

With winter coming on,

I fear, as always,

for the creatures

as they seek the shelter

that I claim by right,

green frogs burrowing in mud,

turtles bunkering down

in a mulchy semi-hibernation.

Do they sense that far-away sun,

I wonder.

Are they assured that it will someday

seek them out,

reintroduce them into their proper place

among the living?

There is a boundary between

their world and mine.

In summer, it’s a thin, almost invisible line.

In December,

it’s a wasteland.

JOHN GREY

JOHN GREY is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, Poetry East and Visions International.