In the rebirth of the valley
between the green fruit
and the rushing snow melt
between black pelts
and the baritones of new fathers—
In all of this new life
is the reminder that not all survive.
not all buds bloom,
or fruit ripen
or newborns leave the blood clotted fur of their mother’s coat.
not so kind is the flooding of pastures for the foxhole,
or hungry vipers awakening from hibernation
or the sharp bite of the mongoose.
she, too, has mouths to feed.
None of it is evil.
a manifestation of
will, innateness, and luck,
And a reminder that I survived the floods
and the sharp teeth;
that my probability turned to actuality
and I am here breathing
all these beginnings and ends
in the mountain spring
in a far-off land
that I call home.
There are times that a troop will cast off an individual or that an individual will isolate themselves from the bulk of the group. There are a slew of reasons: disease, deformities, an approach to the end of life. . .either forced by the alphas or a behavior that is completely self-imposed, you’ll find these individuals hanging around the periphery of activity, usually perched many meters above the center of activity.
I’ve come to call this ancient male, “The Nomad”. I’m not sure where he’s from or how long he’s been away. But he’s back now.