Call of the Woods

leaf-lush primal joy,

a magnet,

drawing woodmen

from their galley desks

step

by wide-eyed

step

forest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but natural

in tree cloak

all still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant

to see it—

waking, alive,

and ripe

for the taking

Deerwoods

Silent inviting

a place of bounty

fleeting, springing

with creatures alighting

puzzles of trees

branches and streams

woods of Indian walking dreams

pace in the cold

upwind and still;

waiting for prey

ignoring the chill

there to take

with a hunter’s violence,

a thirst to slake

with hours of silence