Form.

Chatham, Dark Woods, 1995

POEM

Form is the woods; the beast,
a bobcat padding through red sumac,
a pheasant in brake or goldenrod
that he stalks -- both rise to the flush,
the brief low flutter and catch in air;
and trees, rich green, the moving of boughs
and the separate leaf, yield
to conclusions they do not care about
or watch -- the dead, frayed bird,
the beautiful plumage,
the spoor of feathers
and slight, pink bones.

Jim Harrison