Friday, September 19, 2008

I continue my fascination with Timothy Treadwell

Many words, lines, and phrases in this poem came from episode 7 of The Grizzly Man Diaries.


“Perhaps there was room in his doggy heaven
for a person like me.”

Had Treadwell never spoken,
what would we have? Green and white,
gray trunks, gray toes,
gray wolf, red fox, tawny-maple bear;

the gray of the timbers fallen
like fence along the raging riverside;
the dirty azure of the North Face,
on the prime cut of the Big Green;
the grungy rainbow of wool wrapped
around hair like fresh straw.

It is silent since the earthquake:
preceded by the cries of foxes, their clicks and whirrs;
(I hide and shake)
followed by the soft thuds of cliffs failing
(I’ve gotta be able to hide…)

the moose bull-huff call as he lumbers
through Queen Anne’s lace
(…and be a witness…)

The bear lies back, lazily, slowly,
to nurse her cubs; the fox nips
his callused finger, pulls at his satchel,
and all is in balance:

no swell of river, no rush of rain,
no scattering patter of twigs on roof.
One small moment at the center.

Away runs ruddy Timmy, trailing
his bent brush of tail
trailing, into the maze, the words:

was it our last season together?

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