By Quinn Bailey
Tonight the wind will not let
The trees sleep.
Branches to the ground,
The few squat evergreens
Sway through the meadow
In their heavy dresses
Like old women so
Familiar with mischief.
Is it so hard to trust
The lessons of loss?
The waning moon asks,
Her shy light teasing
The bent shadows into
Stark relief on the snow.
The skeletons of Lynx
And Snowshoe Hare,
Indistinguishable
But for size, tooth
And claw,
Dance across
The stark mounds
And across time,
Singing.
We become what sustains us,
We become what we run from.
I think I too will be up all night.
Copyright Bailey 2020
Quinn Bailey is a poet, naturalist, and wildlife tracker who for the last seven years has been helping people find a deeper connection to the natural world through ancestral skills such as bird language, wilderness living, and cultural mentoring. Growing up between Orcas Island, Washington, and Big Sur, California, he discovered a strong sense of belonging and curiosity about the natural world and feels most at home wandering the wooded hills and rocky shores surrounding the Salish Sea where he now lives. Quinn’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Wayfarer, Ravens preach, and Deep Wild. His first collection of poetry, The Currents of the World, was named as a winner in Homebound Publications poetry prize and is forthcoming in Aug. 2020.
All work by Quinn Bailey
