The Cabin

I have grown too familiar with these woods
and walk silently as if they’re hallowed.
Crouching down in the roots of upturned pines,
I hide in the tangle of last year’s storm,
and dart my eyes with a primitiveness —
frightened by voices that I do not know.
I could run along the trail of the deer
where it crosses the conservation path,
and sleep in tall wet grass by the river,
and hear the bass rise to the evening hatch —
then walk home, feeling through the gaps in trees,
drawn by the light and damp wood smoldering,
like I have a furball in my stomach
and need a place to be warm and covered.
There I’m surrounded by walls with gapped sides
and have thought too long and am not skittish.
I don’t dart around trees and run inside.
I’m an obnoxious drunk out splitting wood,
and scare even the jays, shaking their nest,
yearning for a disregard that is real.

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