Not Alone

 

Yesterday morning there was a flock of crows

on the lawn, looking like a priest convention.

What did they find to eat, at the tail end of winter?

I wondered.

It is still dark at 8 a.m., and not one light is on

in the condo across the street.

We take our wakings slow
this time of year.

The white blooming plant in the garden 

has opened all of its buds. "Pretty, pretty!"

I whisper, as I pass. It preens, and 

stands up taller.

The local dogs know I carry treats.

My day is made when I can offer one,

and pat a humble furry head, whose eyes

will shine in greeting next time
we meet.

One midnight, outside my trailer,

I found myself not two feet from 

half a dozen deer. Their soft eyes looked

at me. They didn't startle, or move off.

I gazed back, in wonder.

That same winter, again in the middle

of the night, I saw a fat black bear 

sitting on my sister's porch across the street,

eating apples from a wooden box.

He looked at me as I shone my flashlight

at him, reached down, plucked another apple.

During a terrible sleeting winter storm,

I heard him howling his cold and his distress

and wished I could take him a blanket,

find him shelter.

My heart rests among the beasts.
I am companioned by the critters 

- and the forest, the wild shore,

and the ever-changing sky.
Because of them
I know I'm not alone.

From Wild Writing - Day One. Inspired by the poem "How We Are Not Alone" by Maya Stein.