Critter
I have smelled critter,
No, not on my breath;
but in the bush so thick of willow.
Cutting line with my razor tipped sledge.
It has an heir to it,
which few can describe.
Haunting even the best bushmen.
Traversing the saddle of a ridge,
you can cut through it by grit of filling;
but here in the wall of willow,
there is no place to hide.
You cannot seek refuge in your tangible circle.
It closes in on you like a car door,
bent at the hinges from some previous blow.
Run, but you can't hide.
Remember:
One day, critter will get you.
Until then son,
keep walking in a straight line.
by Christopher Kuntz. a poet and artist who lives in the Yukon, spending his summers working as a prospector, while writing and painting during most of the winter.
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