ANCESTRAL WONDER

Yvonne Higgins Leach

I wake up every day like half the world,

in a city—asphalt, streetlights, and freeways.

Buildings that block the sun. Glass

and steel cage me in. I can’t feel

the earth’s pulse anymore. 

I, like most of us who live in cities, work inside— 

carpet, desks, roller chairs, fluorescents—

making decisions in windowless conference rooms.

At day’s end, I pull my car into my garage

and exist inside walls of my house with more walls. 

My cousin works in a factory—

machines, chemicals, PPE, concrete

and everyone accepts the drums of solid waste

awaiting pickup and turns an eye 

to the vile water emptying into the river.

A friend tells me he is part of a crew of loggers.

They are happy to work outside in the mountains—

hard hats, chainsaws, the long arm of the harvester. 

Heading home, the raped hillside bald

and stump-pocked in the rearview mirror. 

I’d remain in my car, absorbed

in my screens, distracted by my to-do list

or immersed in my churning mind

were it not for the fascination of things

with hooves, wings, beaks, fur, feathers and fins. 

I catch sight of a fin from the shore. 

It slices the water. Then a black hump rises, curves, 

and slowly lowers. Ancestral wonder 

thrusts into my throat. Look!

I scan intently, pleading for an even closer encounter. 

I am in awe of their instincts—what it takes

to survive, yet how they play, teach, are loyal.

How they ask nothing of us. How

they inherited the world

and never disconnected. 

When I bear witness to what is 

gills, scales, claws, paws, and whiskers,

it’s as if I am once again turning dirt, reaping; 

once again, singing old songs

around the fire after a day of harvest. 

I place my feet where tree roots tangle,

fall to my knees and kneel where 

the wild things thrive, hear again the echo 

in the stones, and in the drench of forest song

I am bound to elder lore.