Poetry by Christine Andersen
A master of stealth and ambush.
It was surreal to see the big cat
running through the woods
in late morning,
his spectacular tail floating behind him
as he dashed beside the river—
deft, tawny, muscular,
his head seeming too small for his large body,
the gait measured and smooth
as if padding the air instead of the ground.
A mountain lion in Connecticut 30 feet from where I stood
with a face like I’d seen in pictures,
read about in National Geographic,
gazed at behind the bars in zoos.
My fear was quick to rise.
But he never looked my way.
He ran toward the Gurleyville Bridge,
toward a hollow of 19th century houses
and the historic gristmill.
He ran toward the town library,
the shopping center, the nearby mill town.
In my dreams,
he still runs—
attacking my dog one night,
the next, pacing outside my front door.
As the days pass,
he glides like a specter
near the barn,
up the road from my mailbox,
beyond the fence in the backyard.
He grows larger, stronger, sleeker.
Almost imaginary.
What it must be to instill awe.
To be respected
for power and prowess.
To run swiftly and pounce for your supper
down cliffs and rocky terrain.
To creep under the moon
through tall grass and deep woods
and sleep in caves or brush.
To nurse your own wounds,
travel wide for a mate,
swim in rushing rivers.
To become mythical
to an old woman
in a small New England town.
What it must be to be wild.
Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily through the Connecticut woods with her hounds. The changing New England seasons inspire many of her poems. Publications include Comstock, Octillo, and Awakenings Reviews, Glimpse, Dash, Glassworks and Evening Street Press. Winner of the American Writers Review 2023 Poetry Contest.
