A Conversation

A warm September night in a deep pine forest. I’m stacking firewood for the long-anticipated gathering of Weekend Warriors, come to slay rocks, trade tales and get loose among friends.

The Sun has departed, something about a prior engagement to the West. The Full Moon is expected, but is fashionably late. I drop an armload of dry wood into the roofed crib, my hands and arms streaked black with pitch, sticky, smelling gloriously of pine, and turn to appreciate the evening’s symphony: cicadas in the meadow down by the river, a chorus of tree frogs surrounding me, the distant hum of short-haulers dieseling up the hill on their way to Points Unknown.

Then you glide in, silent as the sky, curiosity conquering caution, come to see what the commotion could be. I smile, and settle back against a tall stump. I had hoped, dreamed, wished for you without having the temerity to speak your name, without daring to expect you, without believing I deserved you.

But here you are, securing your perch, taking my measure, and before long, asking the Eternal Question, your lucid eyes fixed upon my sorry silhouette, “Whooo?”

I let the night slide past like a slow-moving cloud. There’s a pace to this, like leaves falling, like a vole snuffling a circuitous path toward its destiny.

In time I take in the night air, cup my hands about my mouth, and exhale a reply: “Hoo-hoooo!”

Your head swivels, tilts, feathers fluffing. You digest me as the minutes pass.

Then, shoulders hunched, forward-leaning, you catch an unseen current and glide away, not away, but to a nearer pulpit. Now my head swivels, shoulders hunched, a lesson well learned, thank you, and I ask again: “Whooo?”

The thinness of my entreaty startles me. I had meant to sing your song, but instead had sung mine.

We’ve had this conversation before, you and I.

Your forward lean becomes a trajectory, and you disappear into the night.