Zanhar, the Arabian,
out of place
on this wild, wet, West Coast
cavorts about. Strides up and over
moss-masked boulders. Brushes past
tickling ferns. Droopy cedars stand, soaked
under shawls
of moody mists, as we slip by
unnoticed. Fungal smells released
from among fallen giants
sprouting huckleberry bushes, declare life
decomposing.
How the flesh knows it. And stillness
hovers. I scan with feline eyes
cliff outcrops where cougars sink silent paws
into saturated moss, drop
to the belly
and wait. Black bears plod along elsewhere
and camouflaged, black-tailed deer forage
— ears twitching, tails flickering —
time enough to escape, but
they do not
bound away. Slicing through
overhead branches with precision, owl
disappears
into mysterious dimensions.
And Zanhar, ever the ambassador, negotiates
our way back
to his barn. Returns me
to my world
of bricks and mortar
and traffic
© by Jana Kalina.
Used with the author's permission.
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