I wanted to put another poem up for Native American Heritage Month, and I decided to post this one.
I’ve
always taken for granted that I could see more of the natural world’s
plants and animals, even in the city, than most other people I know here, who
seem totally oblivious to a pair of golden eagles stunt-flying on the
thermals overhead or the waddle of a beaver across a grassy knoll to
his creek home. I know I owe this gift to my grandmother and aunt and
uncle who taught me when I was young to pay attention to the land
around me and its plant and animal inhabitants—and thus vastly
enriched the rest of my life.
When the rest of my family erupted in chaos and violence, focusing on the natural world of which I was a part saw me through the pain and desperation. Nothing pulls me out of despair like going to water to see the dawn in and watch the dance of the real world behind the shabby drapery of made-up, pretend, commodified daily existence.
DREAMING FOX
Early
on a Sunday walking
past
a bank drive-through on a hill
above
a creek running through the city
surrounded
by a narrow band of wild growth
I
see him and freeze
big
dog fox stopped at the sight of me
one
foot still in the air
tail
of fire just brushing the uphill
shrubbery
from which he came
we
stand and stare
unable
to move or breathe
his
eyes staring into mine
against
a background
murmur
of morning traffic
neither
of us supposed to be here
not
me at this just-after-dawn-in-summer hour
not
him in the middle of the city
curiosity
more than fear
behind
his big eyes I had always
thought
foxes had small close-together eyes
from
cartoons or wildlife films or something
like
that but his are set attractively
distant
from each other
an
intelligent face staring
me
down wanting me to turn
and
run from the predator
he
must have a den nearby
with
mate and kits so he will stand
against
me forever
if
need be he must be afraid
he
knows humans are dangerous
to
his kind especially
if
he lives here in the heart of the city he must
dread
the moment he will have to take
me
on so many times his size
and
probably with noisy metal weapons
against
his needle teeth and claws
feeble
in the world of cars motorcycles sirens
thrown
rocks gunshots in this neighborhood he will
do
it nonetheless I watch him set down his foot
lightly
the muscles of his haunches tense
to
spring in one final hopeless suicidal
attack
to damage and drive me off
away
from the den down among the brush
on
the banks of the urban creek
hidden
deep among the willows
I
wish I could follow him down there
to
see his mate and babies
he
is right to fear me and attack
that
human curiosity impulse to know
to
somehow own experience fatal
to
him if someone less harmless sees
and
follows he hunkers down on his tail
silent
no warning growl prepared
to
launch himself through the air at my throat
only
he will not be able to leap
that
high from the lower ground
where
he stands he will have to settle
for
chewing my waist and legs
taking
pity on us both
I
back away slowly still
holding
his vulpine gaze he turns back
to
the shelter of the woods with only
to
make sure I don’t follow
to
make sure I was real
one
flash of movement and all trace
of
red gone only undergrowth he might
never
have stood and stared into my human eyes
so
early on a Sunday morning
in
the heart of the city
leaving
us both to wonder
if
we dreamed he of a human
who
did no harm me of a fox
who
did not run improbable dreams
intertwined
©
Linda Rodriguez 2016