I see more animals in the north,
at the top edge of British Columbia,
across into the Yukon,
than I do in the south.
Porcupines, moose, bison,
Bears – both black bears and grizzlies,
red fox.
Perhaps I don’t see more animals in the north.
Likely, I’m just paying more attention
because I’m there rarely,
although the animals seem to
linger longer than in the south,
presenting me with a longer view of their lives.
In the south, when I see a moose,
it’s a brief encounter.
The moose usually runs away or
disappears into the forest.
In the north, I once rounded a copse of trees and
found a moose on her front knees
drinking water out of a small pond.
She saw me;
indeed, we made eye contact briefly,
but she made no motion to leave.
I had never seen a moose on its knees drinking water before.
I didn’t even know that was something they did.
She let me watch her for a while,
and when I felt sufficiently unnerved for staring at an animal
that was minding its own business,
I wandered off.
But when I think of the animals in the north,
it’s the red fox that comes to mind most often,
how that one red fox stepped out on the trail and
refused to let me pass.
He stood his ground,
posing in a shimmering morning light,
surrounded by dew-soaked grass
that refracted the sun’s rays like a prism.
A few times, I motioned to walk around him,
but he adjusted his position seemingly to let me know that
he would not make my walk easy for me.
I was the intruder.
I was the alien invader of his home.
And the red fox would not tolerate my trespassing.
In my mind,
I delved briefly into the arrogance of my human superiority,
thought to show that defiant red fox who’s who,
but I quickly abandoned it.
This red fox was an animal.
And I was an animal.
This was his home and
I was simply not welcome.
I shouldered my walking sticks and turned back.