The Pavlovian

This morning I am in the woods.
An odd tribesman in pseudo-fleece jacket and boots,
wanting an inside view of things
Rigid timber poles of Scots Pine
stand motionless,
while their lofty crowns sway

in a breeze unfelt down here.
The ocean in a sea-shell.
Squirells – with so much to get through today-
dart erratically through branches, over ground,
as if trapped in a glass bubble,
frantically searching for an exit.

Hammers twitching inside a jazz piano.
I was going to tell you
about this brittle brown carpet
of dried fern.
How it blows away as dust
under my weight.

About the flirtation of the sun and shadow
and the tension in the spaces in between.
But the air is suddenly salted
with the dry smokiness of bacon,
crackling and sizzling from our small cabin.
I become a fish on a hook,

going belly up,
no more to fight a losing battle.
I toss my guns in the dirt,
clasp my hands behind my head,
fingers intertwined
and prepare to sign a full –
very un-poetic – confession.