Walking with Grady at 2 (in the Catskills)

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.

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