the skink and the cutworm

by Carol Bass



with my mind, sometimes a finger, 
I trace the paths the creatures travel; flying, crawling
acknowledging the unseen back yard
buntings, tanagers, kites, crows
from sky to marsh grass to trees, around feeders  
through Mexican petunias
squeaky-voiced cowbirds move in 
mourning doves waddle 
marsh raccoons instinctive about tides 

skinks slithering down into rich dirt, searching for cutworms 
tiny marks of bees and hummingbirds
fragile spider movements
which lines thick? which thin?
some blotch, then splash and spot
some short and jagged, ending abruptly 
others long, curvy
disappearing from your mind 

for a moment
imagine this weaving of wavelengths
woven with your own good energy 
walk slowly 
with dreaming
mind's eye 
on the unseen