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Tracks

by 
Tigger Montague

Not like a blizzard this:
soft, windless, white
fills cracks
as sand does around beach houses,
covers branches and fence boards,
eaves and patio stones --
the spaces in me
that were empty.

I study tracks:
comings and goings,
crow hops and deer toes,
paws on patrol;
the orchard is unblemished,
virginal, boots have not tramped there.

I will leave it this way,
sanctuary from my trappings,
unpathed, uncharted, unbound
by my routine
of stepping in all the likely places.

I stand on the edge
before the melt comes,
breathing snow and apple trees;
wilderness white camouflage
awaits

my heart's leap into snapdragons.

 

 

Tigger Montague lives on a farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with a variety of horses, ponies, dogs, cats, and two wolves.  It is Nature and the intricate balance of subtleties and piercings that inspire his daily life, his writing, and his soul.  Tigger writes: "When the wind speaks, I listen; when the wolves howl, I howl too."

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