Form.

POEM

Form is the woods: the beast,

a bobcat padding through red sumac,

the 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