In the Sand

Talon precise through sand,
gliding a path distinct from volition
or editorial instinct, tracing suggestions
of tail and thick-furred mane
and the deepness of eyes gazing from across
ten millions years of divergence. Around
him the singsong bamboo forests’ incantations
fail to enchant or distract him away from
the task, this feline calligraphy
that amounts to less than art, but much more than
a mere pastime, calculations on the back
of envelopes, kitchen philosophers’ theories.
Through sand, talon sweeps in smooth lines,
inscribing the creature
into the ground, yet never enough for him
to see more than the mere idea of her;
never her face staring back, never actual.

— Gord Sellar, April 2004

April 30, 2004

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