from a course in Practical Thinking, The Open University
Movement in relation to background—size, darkness of objects
count, the frog’s brain functioning in layers, one part
responding to fixed patterns
of light and shade (features of the pond), while another
notes fast-moving forms (insects the frog eats),
while another part of the brain perceives
slow-moving patterns (larger animals that eat frogs). I understand
this—say, a fly, a pinprick darts
against grass: ganglion fire—motion and speed
in relation to background, not unlike
my neighbor’s cat, ghosting past my patio door,
or the lizards that make their way like smoky die-cuts
across my carpet. Anything catches my eye:
bicyclist, bird of my peripheral
vision. This isn’t
knowledge, something I was taught, that speed
and shadow equal predator or prey—
though the startle response is still there,
that quickening. I’m no better.
This poem first appeared in The Nomenclature of Small Things (Carnegie Mellon, 2016).
—
Lynn Pedersen’s poems have appeared in New England Review, Ecotone, Nimrod, Borderlands, and The Southern Poetry Review. She is the author of The Nomenclature of Small Things (Carnegie Mellon) and two chapbooks. A graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts, she lives in Atlanta, Georgia. www.lynnpedersen.com
