The Hunder Enters The Forest
A fecund chance.
Amazed, you venture an unfabricated labyrinth.
Needle carpeted pathways
twisting in and out of tangled
shade. Groping in patterns
or chaos. Chirp. Snap. Whirr.
Chatter. Silence opens now and again.
A bluejay feather snared in bramble.
A hollow wasp in a web of threads.
Jabbing crow cries.
A stream continually spilling over
stationary stones, coaxing loose
debris, fallen leaves, clods.
Something rushes in brush and dry leaves.
Four legs. Fur. Black eyes. Active nostrils
sniffing threat or the stink of fear.
You stand still, holding the
motionlessness for three hours.
First hour: drumming
back the thumping ennui.
Second hour: fighting the pain
of holding still.
Third hour: inside you see
a diving board extending
over a pool of fog.
You plunge through pain
into the encompassing
blessing of stillness.
Without sound or will, you ever so
slowly lean and reach into the dark
clutter of leaves and pull out a throbbing
chip monk. Its squeal peels the silence.
You admire each stripe
on its back and the feel of tiny paws on the deck
of your open hands. You lower the platform.
The beast leaps and disappears.
The hunter exits the forest.
© Scott Thompson