HEATHER JESSEN

What I Don’t See is the Kill							

In the time of shift, with the sun slinging
long blinding shafts through the shimmying
leaves, the shadows roughhousing with 
the golden dappling, the breeze giddy 
between the trees, I walked, alone, down the road closed
to all but foot traffic, except suddenly not
alone—a sleek-eyed bobcat stepped
onto the asphalt and paused, contemplating
animal me long enough 
			                       for me to be aware
of us both breathing, then blinked, once, 
and ambled up, lithely, into the melding 
of day/night, of dip and rise, of green 
and bark and stone, her fur blending into
this transmuting world so I could see
her only when she moved—there, she’s
there, now there, then      finally, gone,
but only to me, not to herself.
Oh, for a moment, 
		                   such grace. Knowing 
what’s essential, dismissing all else 
and, treading, at your chosen pace, onward.