December 21, 2015
Once again I do not see otters
as I walk my old dog west
on the loop trail through winter
woods to shoals and sunset.
I scan the width of gray chop,
the white froth hugging rocks,
the slipstreams of submerged
logs, but all I see is surface
churn. The sun sets somewhere
behind layers of gray as I listen
for the tell-tale chirp. All is quiet
save the steady shush, so I turn
back east and follow the brown
bounce of a hungry dog heading
toward dinner. Today I missed
the otters again, though I searched
with due sincerity. But once on
an otherwise scripted morning
in the midst of an unremarkable
year I watched a romp of river
puppies swim upstream into fall.
The sun froze mid-sky as I stood
on the bank for minutes or hours
memorizing whiskers and wakes.
Wonders once revealed remain
hidden. We may glimpse visions.
We may tiptoe into thin terrain,
but all we keep is absence and
what spirit haunts an afterglow.
Today I walked an old dog down
a winter trail to an empty river
and muffled sunset, and found
they suffice, for I carry the image
of otters. Ever since their presence
etched an ordinary day, it’s now
enough to know they are there.
enough to know they are there.
