Spoor

John Goodrich, "Amur Tiger," 2001, all rights reserved

You see it, in the moment when the cage door
opens. The freshly tagged animal hangs back,
compressing itself in the shadows, and pauses.
Perhaps a twig brushes the metal hasp. Perhaps
the wind carries a memory of something lost.
Extension and explosion, a leap away from the
frightening smells, from its own fear, breaking
in a straight line out past those who watch, to
the indefinite edge, to blend, to hide. It’s there:
panting, belly pressing into leaf litter, waiting
to feel safe enough to move again. The animal
in me does much the same. We both leave bits
of ourselves on cat-claw and bramble as we try
to scrape off the tracking tags, cover our traces.