for the whitetail deer,
I’d still hike without a gun.
I’d walk the woods as alert
as I was the day I got lost,
working my way around
a bog, seeking pitcher plants.
Off-trail, I headed northerly
instead of south and realized
it at only the top of a rise
that revealed asters, shagbark,
oak, and another slope.
As I walked I picked up
two fists of snowy quartz.
A glacier’s gizzard stones.
Not because I was thinking
about bears or feared the forest
would eat me up. Underfoot,
frail twigs snapped and leaves
crackled. So I taught myself
to set sneakers on stone
and moss, and I crouched
and turned my face aside to blend
with the screen of wildflowers
between me and the men I heard
long before I saw them.
Sure, they were just looking
for a place to drink beers
or smoke weed. But I learned
years ago that I’m not
the apex predator. I know
to avoid young packs
and lone rogues out rambling,
to move with the herd at night,
and meet the eyes of hunters
looking for the weakest one.
Some men can’t bear the idea
of not being the toughest thing
in the woods. Of hearing
wolves howl and feeling
like a woman anywhere.