1.
The prey is intent on its course. The deer
Had found the trail of his herd, yet knows
That predation can appear at any moment. From ahead,
There is no scent on the downwind to hinder the path.
From behind, there are no telltale sounds.
It remains vigilant and aware.

Its one fault is a preoccupation with
Keeping signs of the herd. This is the right path,
And it is intent upon keeping with it. There have been prints
Seven-wide of the appropriate species. A familiar marking
On a tree. A lock of fur with a friendly cachet.
Reunion is imminent.---------

The wolf tracks his prey, hanging back beyond
The prey's scent, knowing just the right distance
After years of hunting. He did not see
His prey, heard it pass by, sensed the movement; not
Overwhelmingly hungry but not foolish about
Letting an opportunity pass. He couldn't know
When the next opportunity might present itself.

His footfalls make no sound, his slim paws
Delicately, precisely fall
Between the leaves, twigs and numerous flora
Of the forest floor. The path
Is not sure but the pace is slightly faster
Than steady, adding a hint
Of excitement to the endeavor.---------

Amid the branches of a fifty-year-old oak
Sporting early-Spring foliage, a hunter awakens
To a crackle on the forest floor. He shakes the sleep
From his eyes, thrilled that opportunity has justified
His lonely vigil. A small herd
Is directly below him.

He continues clearing himself of sleep
And thinks to site and aim, but is not sure
Of a clear shot now that the herd has passed to his right.
His disorientation stems from picturing the alarm
Coming from his left. He has lost this chance,
He is wide awake, climbs down.

2.
Not gaining but not losing ground, the deer steadfastly treks,
Envisioning the comfort of family soon,
Now stepping out a bit more quickly.
Time is the enemy.---------

Tracking steadily, slightly faster than leisurely,
The wolf enjoys the hunt. There is no sign
That he should be alarmed or step up the pace.
Victory is almost assured.---------

The hunter on the ground spies movement to his left,
Exactly as he had imagined. He is not sure what he sees
At first. Then he sees the deer come plainly into view.
Redemption!

3.
The wolf senses a quickening of pace
And matches it, still surefooted.
Still confident.---------

The hunter raises the shotgun. He has time.
To track his prey, a textbook situation, exactly like
His daydream. He cocks.

4.
The deer freezes, left hoof up, looks to his right,
The muzzle is several tree trunks away.---------

The wolf's ears peak, he follows the sound to the right,
Veers right. He has not been seen,
But believes he is the target.---------

Behind the site, the hunter silently applauds his good fortune.
Time, he has plenty of time. His prey is frozen still.---------

5.
Taking a bounding leap through the air as though flying,
The wolf comes at the predator.---------

The hunter screams, falls, succumbs to the attack.
He thinks his mistake was leaving the tree. He stops thinking.

6.
The deer takes the opportunity to bound away.---------

This house has a pool, nice kidney shape, good landscaping, so much pride.
But those next door neighbors must be a thorn in their side:
What a mess. Corrugated shed, door unhinged, gardener or owner died?

The view is obscured the length of two homes as we pass a thatch of trees.
Scraggly pines, but taken altogether, a nice buffer between track and families,
Though it deprives us of the chance to evaluate and dream of stories.

Nice porch on the back of that one. Imagine: morning paper, coffee, lazing around.
The next one is a sight. Kiddie pool askew, halfway off the ground,
Tricycle on its side, unmatched lawn chairs set as makeshift lounge.

These three must have banded together and gotten one man to lay all their sod
At once. Seamless tracts maybe 95 by 250, one yard running into the other. It's odd.
How else could they be so identical? They better still be friends, by God.

Trashy. Trashy. Ah, now a lovely garden spot. A perfect oval, visible from the back
Porch or upstairs bedroom. Taller green growth at the center, surrounded by a tract
Of short violet blooms, mounded up, birdhouse and birdseed suspended in a sack.

Amazing. Not one person appears in all these yards... it's 9:23 on a Saturday
Morning. No one mowing, swimming, lounging, no children out to play.
Surely, they're not on the train? What would they be doing today?

This one is simple. Lawn two thirds of the way back from a square brick patio,
Then a row three deep of woods, with a treehouse in the branches, below a wheelbarrow,
Slightly visible from the house, a hundred percent visible from our window.

The parents know the kids relish the feeling of privacy with their peers.
And we know from our experience that, after a couple of years,
They don't even hear the train every hour, lost in play, conjuring dangers and fears.

More woods, then barbecue pit dug into the ground and carefully laid brick.
Burn marks, there must have been a big blaze, the owners were sick:
Their permanent masterpiece discolored forever. They cook and tell tales of their panic.

We remember this one. Last house before the row of stone offices on the next road.
Marks the start of a business district. Old but nice. Room for small trucks to unload.
Offices large enough for, say, five employees each. Lucky! Each office is windowed.

Well, there's a thriving factory. A couple of panes broken out at the top.
It's been that way for as long as we can remember. Do they cover at the first raindrop?
Cracked tarmac parking lot, weeds growing up around a sign that says "School crossing - Stop".

This is a bad part coming up. Abandoned buildings. Nineteen fifties. Enormous.
How long did they hang on after the Big One, converting from warrious to industrious?
Was it ten years, until the sixties? Layoffs, mostly women who returned to the house.

Now rock. Railroad men cut right through to make way for the steel lane.
Did it take months? Unless they dynamited. Straight angular cuts across the grain.
They could have, no one is around here. One less hill along the terrain.

Tunnel. Rat-tat rat-tat rat-tat over the tracks. Under water now, don't cave in.
They have spaced lights at 50 yards and set tiles true, in a straight line.
Close to the city, our destination, we can't wait for the return and the backyards again.

The Rose:
Queen and Princess

of true symmetry, is a
maze from petals to
unfolding bud within.

Exquisite among
cousins in the wood, they
surround, the rose perfects

and grows wild, but
prefers propagation
in a formal setting.

The gardener strives
to coax a certain stance
of stem and bud

while the rose attains
its regal posture
according to a higher plan

and remains more perfect than life.

Flashback

Like slow dancers
in the dark fog,
young dreams
are translucent
from afar.

Starting Out

Visions aglow
spin past
of pastels
and sunrays
and knowing
whatever
happens today
will last.

Your Dream

No one can take away
What happened, heart to heart.
My dreams say this is so
When they wake me with a start.

Cable Car to the Alps

The car -- spare rectangle, wood plank flooring,
Benches running down its lengths, no one sits.
Windows to the waist in banged metal frames.

Ten of us, we are dressed for driving,
the Swiss for skiing, to meet skiers at the top,
a purpose I had not imagined.

We jockey for position at dirty windows
As the car pulls out, bobbing. We knock
Into each other, gain a more sure-footed stance.

We rise, swaying, peering between bodies.
The skiers below are black moving dots.
There is a mountain hush, surreality.

It appears that we are two-thirds of the way up.
The peak looms above us, the brown cafe appears,
the color of cocoa.

The cafe is old, brown shingle boards, door off-plumb.
We enter a room that is neither diner nor bar, in between.
Our table against the wall has large windows.

The room is warm, the cocoa comes, special Swiss blend.
We drink, we marvel, we smoke and reflect.
A momentous experience to be here.

Alps before and below us, the realization hits me,
"I am at the top of the Alps." They are craggy, ancient,
Befitting a continent where Caesar reigned.

To ski the Alps, traverse those ancient paths,
Even to sit on them and feel the history, is divine.
We slowly bring our minds back to the cafe, head out.

I recognize this crag here, that building there,
The route between trees where skiers will appear.
We descend with the power of gravity.

Never let the ride end, these mountains are mine now.
I want to see more of it, must speak of it.
The trip is larger than I ever thought it could be.

Main Thoroughfare

Trees here and there and everywhere, I've never heard complaints. Restore the land to how it was, let's see a lot of trees.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand Pre.

Ye who believe in affecion that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the floodgates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain: and away to the northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descended.
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.

Strongly built were the houses, with frame of oak and of hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer windows; and gables projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens.
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens
Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.

Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand Pre,
Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that covered with snowflakes;
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak leaves.
Fair was she to behold, the maiden of seventeen summers.
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feeds in the meadows.
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,
Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the earrings,
Brought it the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
But a celestial brightness -- a more ethereal beauty --
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.