Footprints

Healthy red fox, maybe a limp,
marks the lawn furniture; not that we have much lawn
mostly hardwood forest. Strong oaks
many punky but lovely red maples
that can break off in a wind, dangerous snags,
ash, some healthy, some not
lots of young sugar maple and old, old boles at the edge
and several black cherries, twisted, leaning
human, arms throwing a quenching shade.

Our "footprint" exceeds 500 square feet
but only one story. Each year since I'm fifty
watching fox and chickadee, snow and shade,
come and go. I must go as I came
perhaps not yet, perhaps now. To city streets
or burning forests or on a military mission, desert.
Always, with myself inside. Having had sons
who now have themselves, inside.

What can I teach, them or anyone? It is best
by far to learn together. The dialogue
starts with a question. Each day
begins with a question. To know the question
is almost certainly to find an answer.
The fox has his way, a single line of footprints.
The human way is to know the question.

We did not discuss the righteousness of war
at the dump, on the conservation commission or while playing basketball.
In a vast republic of prairies, cities and mountains
it cannot matter to convince a few friends of your certainty.
One can clamor, one of a million whelps this Spring
to leave a footprint in eternity.
I was struck that while the ancient Romans wrote of love
the ancient Britons wrote of war.
The Romans should have been perfecting their republic.
No god could do that work for them.