Fisher
1 Minute Read Time

I wasn’t brought up to hunt,
yet from boyhood, my obsession was the fisher—
lithe, crepuscular, solitary,
slinking silver-dark fur across forest floor.
Snowshoe hare, boreal mushroom, flesh of porcupine:
as wide in taste as to suit its needs.
Pekania pennanti—once trapped,
once pelted within an inch of extinction,
now ardent, now bent
to rearrange the limits of its existence.
Pliant-ankled, compact, how quick
to hurl itself back on a world that didn’t want it,
so many aspens darted down
headlong, so many mating shrieks
rocketed into the reluctant night.
We too could lurk and scurry.
You, who ask after my obsessions,
and I, who clasp you when high brays
pierce dusk-hush, implacable, terror-dripped,
nature’s misdirection where wild habitat
meets our meandering.
It’s nothing to turn away from.
Mate, we found each other at the spot
where need reveals itself—foraging, fur-burnished,
shimmering to escape.
Read more from Issue 16.2.
