It was two that moved
along the dry creek bed
last night, following
those hidden tributaries
of scent too subtle
for my poor instruments,
each paw a patient bird
of prey landing muffled
on the scalloped sand,
heavy tails swaying
as they waded deeper
into the night.
Believe me when I say
I followed their trail
for as long as I could,
through rabbit brush
tunnels, and juniper scrub,
under rusted barbed wire
and a sky that promised
no rain.
The vigilant quail
scurrying between
the thornbushes,
the sudden grouse
beating furiously at the warm air,
before gliding down
to a new hidden roost.
Always I am seeking
to parse the necessary
from the not,
but the tracks only ever tell
part of the story:
two prints side by side – a pause.
More distance between – speeding up.
But never how to walk
another night hungry,
robbed of so many sanctuaries,
never how to feel
the land failing
all around you and still
put one foot in front of the other.
—
Quinn Bailey is a poet, naturalist, and wildlife tracker who feels most at home wandering the wooded hills and rocky shores surrounding the Salish Sea. His poetry has appeared in Camas, Deep Wild, Big Sky Journal, and Terrain.org. His first collection of poetry, The Currents of the World was a winner of the Homebound Poetry Prize. He is an MFA candidate through Pacific University.
