Follow the Footprints / Where the Shadows Go by Rick Hartwell

Follow the Footprints

With eyes only, I follow the tracery of tracks

across the overnight snow and into the woods.

Most footprints I know from the appearance

of their makers at my wife’s feeding stations:

squirrels, opossums, racoons, deer, and the

peace signs and tridents of birds; but some

tracks are unknown, hidden behind limited

knowledge and their owner’s secretive ways.

Occasionally I catch a glimpse of muted colored fur

as it disappears into the gnarled treeline, teasing me,

a fleeting flirtation, whetting my inquisitiveness.

It is only a narrow strip of woods behind our home,

but somehow the cagey visitor never seems to come

out the other side, but seems to vanish laterally until

darkening twilight summons another overnight stay

until lightening false dawn sounds a call of retreat.

I suppose I could contrive ways to unveil this

silent visitor and quench my curiosity, but such

satisfaction would cost me elusive enjoyment of

knowing the woods beyond contain an unknown.

I’ll venture into my own dark woods someday

in pursuit of the unrevealed, but like my friend,

not to pop out the other side, nor return, but

to travel obliquely after an obscure truth.

Where the Shadows Go

Leafless tree shadows cavort behind curtains,

drawn in defense of a harsh setting sun, and

dapper bird silhouettes dart to and from feeders,

ignoring collisions with naked black saplings,

so only in winter do the tree shadows dance.

With the greening of horizons in spring, with

the veil drawn back exposing the wonders of oz,

comatose trees leaf out and a settling sun makes

pinpricks of light stabbing through foliage and

shadows all hide in the dark of emerald city.

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) who just moved to northern Illinois from southern California (?) with his wife of fifty years, Sally Ann (upon whom he is emotionally, physically, and spiritually dependent), one grown daughter, and ten cats! Like Blake, Emerson, Thoreau, and Merton, he believes that the instant contains eternity.