midmorning, the first day of December,
deep in a remote valley of the Smokies called Cataloochee,
with no other people here save for the park ranger
I see getting into his truck,
yet I am not alone
for two bull elk browse near the ranger and me,
the rack of their antlers pointedly proud,
they notice me and then dismiss me as irrelevant
to the grass before them which begs to be eaten,
I cannot even imagine how much grass
the great bulk of their selves demands,
up the valley a ways, there are more bulls and cows,
some just there, some hard at work at eating,
last night’s mist hoar frosting the leaves around them,
each mouth of grass lightly crunchy with its frozen dew,
wild turkeys abound in the fields with them
as if both mammal and bird
are at the top of the food chain this morning,
my camera almost quivers with the joy
of the magnificence of the elk before it.
by Henry Walker
December 1, ’11
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