When The Wild Things Were

I watch the winter river, black as tar,

constantly changing, quickly transforming,

never the same.

I see the trees on the far bank, barely concealing

extravagant winter homes,

and I wonder what it was like

when the wild things roamed.


No trails were cut.

The trees had just grown.

The shriek of a child –

clear as a bird –

never was heard

when the wild things were.


Deer were abundant,

so were the bears.

Humans? Not heard of,

nor things we call “stairs.”


For now I watch the river,

in its formal winter,

as it always changes,

transforms, and

never stops moving.



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