Tristram Shandy is his daddy, and he lifted his plots
from Lawrence Sterne, who hasn’t got around yet
to paging through Victoria’s Secret catalogs,
or listening to Art Blakey while chopping vegetables,
or traipsing off after Wordsworth
on a tour of literary history.
But Billy came along last night, as hunting
for a coon track, we headed to a creek—
almost dried up, spilling down a side holler—
flat stones mixed with silt, water trickling along,
collecting now and then in small pools.
We’re bent over, searching for signs.
And we find them—fresh paw prints in the sand;
rocks with the wet side up, flipped over by a coon
in search of salamanders, crawdads, worms,
or sometimes, you suspect, just for the hell of it,
to see what’s underneath, and who cares
if you can't eat it?
My Redbone opens, barking here and there.
He’s caught a whiff of the coon, but he has trouble
moving the track. He can’t anticipate
where this rascal is going, he can only follow his scent.
We listen to his lunatic loops, sidetracks that peter out.
“What’s happening?” asks Billy.
The dog circles around, then doubles back.
It may take him all night to line this one out.
But, nonetheless, he’s enjoying the hunt;
his mouth has a whimsical tone.
He’s not driving this coon, he assures us.
Abandon prediction.
At the end of the chase, if things work out,
we’ll end up circling an oak,
the tallest damned tree in the woods,
snapping off saplings, heading upslope,
searching for an opening in the understory
to scan the highest part.
And if we’re in luck, someone will spot the coon,
body hidden in a clump of leaves, peering back—
a pair of eye that gave in again
to their curiosity. Reflecting our lights,
glowing with a green intensity.
Waiting to be born. Written.
© Tony Russell, 2010
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| Rocky creek bottom; photo by Tony Russell |
