Cutting A Track
It was a heavy, deep, wet snow.
The tracks were clear, no ice along the edges,
the claw marks often sharply showing,
the stride unhurried but beyond me catching
I tracked the bear; it took me
to where I couldn't go and I turned
back, walked slow up the hill through
the slashings, on rock lodged thousands
of years ago to the edge where I knew
the valley below.
I could have been tracking God the way the sign
never let me see the bear, the way
I could never gain on what I was hunting.
It didn't go through thick places,
once walked a fallen tree as if on a balancing beam.
I stepped in the paw print or just
aside looking down, up, out, to each side.
I never thought about not following
the track adding it to the other
ones haunting my dreams.
Stained Glass Writers of Punxsutawney