My grandfather used to tell me
about the animals in the woods on his land
but I could never see them.
Be quiet, he advised, and you’ll see them.
Then one day, my grandfather whispered
to me it was time—
I should go down into the woods
to the old logging bridge, to see
if the forest creatures would speak to me.
Be still, he said, Sit for half an hour
in silence. Listen.

Seeking shade from the sun, I sat
on pine duff and vines and leaned back
against a fallen old oak, green with moss.
Creek water was whispering over rocks,
water striders crossed over the current.
I counted long minutes.

Out of the quiet, a turtle’s mottled head
popped the surface of the creek,
sank down as a rabbit came out of the weeds,
froze, fidgeted, and hopped away.
A flying squirrel leapt, tree to tree,
floated like a ghost
past the perch of a yellow-headed finch.

And then a fox walked right up to me—
a red fox, ears perked, tail down, lips back, grinning.
He sopped three steps in front of me.
At first, I remembered how my grandmother
once shot and killed a rabid dog.
I thought, Don’t move, be invisible.

But then I felt recognized
as we looked into each other’s eyes,
part of the same world, this forest.
An acceptance flowed through me—
he belonged here
and I belonged in the same space,
joined.
I wanted to touch him
and I reached out my hand.
There was no fear.
But my hand had ruptured the tension
that held us together.
I knew at once I had violated
some barrier between us.
A twig snapped,
he leapt away,
he was gone,
and I was alone,
no longer part of the forest.