The Wood Road

Elk herds chirp like birds
As they run in clumps,
Call out, browse straw grass.
The mist clings to them
And blurs their brown forms,

At least to these eyes
That watch from the road
Then close to lock in
On all the high-pitched
Bleats and blares, near yelps

From the scrub-oak slopes
As more and more come
To swirl in the grass,
As if they all drained
From gaps in the hills

Where the woods thin out,
And the sheer cliffs drop,
And the snow should be
But this year’s not, not
Yet, at least. A ring

Now in the wet dawn,
Their swirl picks up speed,
Like a dance—cow elk
And calves, the most part—
Then the whole herd’s gone.