Going Wild

Four pairs of feet dangle from the sofa—

mine are the only ones that can touch the floor.

The others belong to three giggling children

snuggling beside me to watch Disney’s

Going Wild with Jeff Corwin. 

We are riveted to the television 

as if watching the moon landing,

feeling as though we are fellow explorers

weaving through the tall grasses of the plains 

or creeping beside Jeff on the jungle floor.

His urgent whisper, There it is!, makes our hearts pound

as we catch a glimpse of a stalking leopard

in South Africa, or a cobra ready to strike in Thailand.

We squeeze each others’ hands and squeal

when the adventure peaks and gets 

deliciously scary. We are together and ready

for more.

Now, I am left to explore on my own,

my little ones flown away to their grown-up lives.

I’ve traded Jeff’s wilderness treks 

for morning walks around my neighborhood,

parlayed giddy shrieks of enthrallment 

into quiet awe and wonder. 

Yesterday, I saw a cardinal on a birch tree, 

as striking as a spot of blood on a white shirt.

I passed a field where six bare trees lay uprooted,

all in a row, like dead soldiers laid out for burial. 

And my heart raced when a wide-eyed doe stepped 

just meters in front of me, standing guard 

as her dappled fawns crossed the street. 

Mamas transfixed in each other’s presence, 

one of us, at least, not wanting the moment to end.

I watched in silence, barely breathing,

as she flicked her tail and bounded off, into the wild.

Published in Third Wednesday, December 2020