Like a fistful of twigs, 

or a groundskeeper,


the porcupine’s tail tends to 

each track

sweeping the gravel 

into a braided shape

like a stream, 

carving among silt and bank


here and there


with a claw scrawled print 


as if to show

or remind


those who 

dismiss this passage

or deem it invisible


that here, every one of us 

who sets down our track

is home


our print,




like a ripple

or a branch


not a smudge to wipe


but a life



to the press of


this tender ground.

Yurt dweller, parent, partner, writer. Knows some things about medicine, life coaching, teaching, and the wilds.

2 Comment on “Resident

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