Eye to Eye

While grey fluffs of feathers trilled like finely tuned piccolos

and fire-red altos warbled, flutelike, from the treetops,

Myself spied, across the trees and brush,

Himself.

As our eyes met (click!),

he lowered his head

and turned away,

instantly deferential . . .

the gentleman.

I wondered if he'd really go.

When I proceeded on my way,

he turned back.

"Ah!"  I thought.

"He never meant to leave."

Calculating, observant

was he.

Poised tall on some old wood now,

he watched me walk.

"Thank you, kind sir,"

thought I,

forgetting, for a split second,

who he was,

thinking dimly, faintly, that I must cross before him.

I did recall, however,

that the door to the house

was locked

and I -- keyless.

It was then that my mind was jarred awake

to the reality of this other.

Yet his cloak

(peculiar!)

had faded to light brown

on one side . . . . .

Evidence of a lost battle?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps simply a worn coat

received in just that condition.

A stealthy beggar was he,

this silent figure in black.

So patient was he,

so patient,

still waiting . . .

while I pondered and walked

this way, then that,

wondering when to cross,

and how, precisely,

to get inside.

In a flash,

legs flew 

(mine)

with invisible

wings.

He was behind me, somewhere,

and I could no longer see him

watching me.

Hands pounded

(mine)

on the door fiercely, desperately,

while lungs roared

(also mine)

as if to save my life.

But only "as if."

Pretending, was I,

(heart pounding nearly

out of my chest).

Pretending, was I . . .

only because

it "could have come to that."

But, of course, I will never know.

Only Himself knows --

Himself,

who heard others open the door for me

and who, undaunted,

lingered at length,

sniffing, double-checking,

before lumbering slowly
on all four feet

downhill.