Carcajou

CARCAJOU

In the northern forests,
spring is stabbing
into the heart of winter,
and all the things of gestation
ready themselves
to blossom and be born
again.

There is no man's track,
no smell of tobacco,
no tire tracks,
no garbage,
no zap of neon.

There is
a snow wraith
that prowls
in the deepest shadows,
striking fear
into the cougar
and the bear;
with granite muscles undulating
beneath a striped mantle;
a little monster with musk sacs,
and savage courage
equaled nowhere;
the white wolverine.

Though no man has ever seen
the albino carcajou,
I have
many times in my mind
seen
the faint yellow swath
from the powerful shoulders
to the base
of the great bushy tail,
and the tiny black-green weasel eyes,
and the razor fangs
that can crush bone
or bite through a metal roof.

I have seen the skunk bear
sitting back
on its haunches
like a dog,
shielding its tender eyes with a paw,
and it has seen me,
expects me,
knows that I am coming,
leaving the stink of the cities
behind,
and there is no malice
in its heart.


Glenn Buttkus 1968