The Thing That Runs

I have hunted many things—

the scared little heart of the deer in the first rays of the sun,

the glitter of the truth in the eyes of the two lovers,

the outline of a word that I could not name.

Always it starts the same way:

a whisper in the ribs,

a hunger which changes the world into scent and sound—

breaking of branches,

wind moving the grass like thought.

The body, via the brain learns to chase

before the mind even acknowledges its desire.

Bootprints become more visible with every step of maybe.

each breath a vow

to find, to take, to end the searching.

But the thing that runs—

It is more familiar with the woods than I am.

It turns the edges of memory,

it jumps over the pitfalls of certainty.

It is the sound that I follow through the reflections.

the breathing, which gets faster when I am at rest.

One time, I thought I had caught it—

held it close, warm, trembling.

Yet even at that moment it went on slipping through.

like vapor through your fingers,

giving nothing but the smell of the rain

and the slight bruise of almost.

Right now I am walking slower.

The woods are more peaceful when you stop forcing them to reveal their secrets.

Sometimes I see it—

the thing that runs—

looking at me from behind the trees,

safe, free,

and I acknowledge it with my bowing head.

Because the hunt was never for the deer,

nor for love, nor for meaning.

It was for the moment when I finally understood

that chasing is actually a kind of finding,

and loss,

its own kind of ​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌grace.