A Bigfoot poem

would have nothing whatsoever to do with, you know — those interlopers. It would have, I suppose, a cold mountain stream in it, a rock shifting in the current, the too-loud splash of a trout. It would have loose bark ticking in the wind & a saw-whet owl’s discrete requests for clarification — that kind of persistence. It would have the hush when the crickets suddenly stop & your pulse makes such a racket you’re sure it will give you away, you whose knees are incapable of bending, whose feet grip as much of the ground as they can still lay claim to. It would cry, that poem, possibly for joy. It would hiss.