You live in the hills, and parks,
And in the draws which best hold you hidden.
The sharp rocks are your friends.
You move, moving the least possible
To conserve the life in your body.
You have eyes in the back of your head,
Your babies have learned the exact sounds to listen for.
Only in the low light times of day
Do you venture out from the trees
Into the open where you can be seen.
You know which paths cut the fastest
into the deepest trees.
Moving in single file, you are shaped by the
Ebb and flow of the trails, heads bobbing
Like ticking minutes,
With the rhythm of your walk.
These paths you travel
are the bloodlines of your world.
You are called wild, but you are not,
Having nothing to think about
Except to keep on the move,
You live lovely lives eating grass and forbs,
Munching here, nibbling there.
As if on vacation, dining at the buffet,
Living in hotels –
Under this tree tonight,
In that nice grassy bottom tomorrow.
It’s convenient, comfortable and mobile.
In these hills where you live,
Live the mouse, the blue jay, the hare
The grasshopper and rocks. Yes, they are the wild
The reckless, the tame, the movement
Of the sun and rain and hot and cold
And wet and dry.
Their flesh has fed the dirt
They have lived on since the first moon.
You cross the same ground, without thinking of
Where these ancients have always lived,
Captured by this place like you,
Standing on hill tops
Looking out over the curve
Of the earth to lands they shall also never visit.
Yet, you never pause to think of this.
You care only for your needs
Moving, moving from you don’t know what
Only eating, laying, drinking
Looking for the finest hidden green soft grass
To lay down in and chew your cud.