Porcupine at Dusk

by Ingrid Wendt

Out of the bunch grass

out of the cheat grass

a bunch of grass waddles

my way.



Quill-tips bleached by winter four

inches down: crown of glory dark

at the roots: a halo

catching the sun's

final song:



No way could such steady

oblivion possibly live

up to legend, whatever

fear I might have had

is gone, but still I stop



Short on my after-dinner walk, no

collision course if I

can help it, thinking

at first it's the wind,

nudging a path out of the field



Or one of a covey of tumbleweed

lost like those today on the freeway,

racing ahead of my car that whole long drive

here to the banks of the Snake, to friends

so close they know

when to leave me alone.



As though I were nowhere around, the porcupine

shuffles the edge of the road,

in five minutes crosses

a distance I could have covered

in less than one



And disappears at last into cattails

and rushes, sunset, a vespers

of waterbirds, leaving me

still unwilling to move.



I am a sucker for scenes like this.

The slowest beauty can rush me.

And here I am,

all of my defenses down.


please note: photo by Sheila Skogen