Poem
Form is the woods: the beast,
a bobcat padding through wet sumac,
the pheasant in break or goldenrod
that he stalks — both rise to the flush,
the brief low flutter and catch in air;
and trees, rich green, the moving of boughs
and the separate leaf, yield
to conclusions they do not care about
or watch — the dead, frayed bird,
the beautiful plumage,
the spoor of feathers
and the slight pink bones.
by Jim Harrison
from The Shape of the Journey
Copper Canyon Press, 1998