Under every moist rock
clad in poker table green
a salamander wet with morning
was secreted away; burgundy flesh
a miniature message of silence
to a tiny boy, squatting on heels,
the little game hunter at work,
pudgy probing at skittering
harmless claws and take-it-or-leave-it tail.
the quiet he attained was a kind
of reverence, the misty silence of
the mountain wood spoke in voices
city kids don’t usually hear.