The Nomad, Setti Fadma



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.

April 2019

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.