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William Stafford - AtavismWilliam Stafford - Atavism
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1 Sometimes in the open you look up where birds go by, or just nothing, and wait.  A dim feeling comes you were like this once, there was air, and quiet; it was by a lake, or maybe a river  you were alert as an otter and were suddenly born like the evening star into wide still worlds like this one you have found again, for a moment, in the open. 2 Something is being told in the woods:  aisles of shadow lead away; a branch waves; a pencil of sunlight slowly travels its path.  A withheld presence almost speaks, but then retreats, rustles a patch of brush.  You can feel the centuries ripple  generations of wandering, discovering, being lost and found, eating, dying, being born. A walk through the forest strokes your fur, the fur you no longer have.  And your gaze down a forest aisle is a strange, long plunge, dark eyes looking for home. For delicious minutes you can feel your whiskers wider than your mind, away out over everything.
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