The rustling’s just beyond my line of sight,
beyond the clearing, trees woven thick and tight
with wild grape, rhododendron, noise
too large for birds or squirrels. The dog lies

quietly by my feet. It isn’t her.
On morning walks I search
for unfamiliar scat. I’ve no idea what
coyote or wildcat droppings look like,

hunt for what’s not recognizable as dog or deer,
droppings filled with bones, dark tufts of fur.
Nights I page through field guides,
looking for instruction. Winter’s coming, maybe I’ll find

tracks pressed in snow. I’d like to think
she’s out there. Something hard and dark
inside me hungers to believe I might
have traveled just that far away from what

is commonplace and known,
into a space where something
unidentifiable is circling
the boundaries I call home.  

__________________________________________________________

Margo Solod is the author of four chapbooks and one full-length book of poetry. She has published over 100 poems in 70+ magazines. She lives in the Shenendoah valley of Virginia with her partner and several large dogs.
recent book by Margo Solod  

__________________________________________________________

home