In the Wolcott Woods. Day 257.

Black bears, lost count.
Dense fur, giant square,
thick-padded paws on hinges.
She sees my face.
Her sweet browns, relaxed brows.
She saunters away, silent,
fur moving in waves,
like thick, black gravy.
In the Wolcott Woods.

Turkeys for days and then 
for none.
Moms, dads, babies, friends.
Polygamy.
Intelligent;
(except for the time
that tom was fighting his reflection
in the truck chrome) 
They fly to the tops of the trees 
and stay together, 
walking through the woods 
and fields like friendly Skeksis, 
modern velociraptors. 
In the Wolcott Woods.

Possums, one in the coop.
Screaming smiling foxes.
A knocked-kneed, young moose!
Hundreds of deer who, 
with their skittish babies, raid my apple trees. 
Rabbits with nests of holes.
Bushy coyotes during the day, 
call for each other at night,
or when a firetruck whirs by. 
In the Wolcott Woods.

Gurgling ravens float in the sky,
chased by four spiteful crows. 
Red-tailed hawks perch, 
on the top of the chicken run, 
smiling down.
Owls, barred, barn, and great-horned, 
ask for them and dive for mice.
In the Wolcott Woods.

Bobcats in arm's reach, slight smile,
While they lick lick lick,
from atop the spilled willow tree.
Wetlands with the cat tails,
and juicy ticks,
a sentry for me from him,
or him from me.
In the Wolcott Woods.

They don't believe:
I looked up at the road 
and saw a bobcat crossing over 
I said, "hey!" and it turned to take a peek 
then I saw,
tail dragging, touching the road. 
Crossing through to find a mate, 
local myth.  
In the Wolcott Woods

Shut-down world,
need some air.
Freshly brittled leaves and babbling brook.
Prints in the white crystals,
or viscous watery dirt.
Slick mountain boulders covered in
crystal-tipped moss.
Walking with my girl, my girls.
In the Wolcott woods.