'A Future Close Enough to Smell'

One of my favorite contemporary poets is Deborah Warren, who lives in Massachusetts. She’s smart, technically adroit, has a musical ear and a sense of humor – rare qualities among poets today. Some of her poems stick with me, memorability being a prerequisite of first-rate verse. My mind is associative. One thing leads to another, not always for conscious or logical reasons, though sometimes the linkage is obvious, as with her poem “Down-to-Earth”: 

“In the field the coyote yip-yips imminent danger;

the dog in the kitchen rumbles a basso growl;

the field sends back a shrill elastic baying;

the kitchen gives a soprano howl.

 

“These two aren’t discussing climate change,

war, flu, layoffs; in this dialogue

a well-informed coyote’s not relaying

to a pessimistic dog

 

“grounds for worry—national cases of mange,

the mountain lion population swelling,

a cougar-sighting fifteen miles away—

only a future close enough to smell.”

 

I had been thinking, rather absently, about my brief spell of working as a copy editor at the newspaper in Schenectady, N.Y. This meant knocking off at midnight. The newspaper’s office stands on a bluff above the Mohawk River. When I pulled out onto Maxon Road and headed home, pairs of piercing white lights stared at me, from the pavement and among the trees and tall grass at the side of the road. My previous experience with coyotes was confined to Western movies. The lights stood, unmoving, and I always stopped driving to watch. Furtively, without hurry, they disappeared. Usually, I encountered several more down the black road.

 

Though it occurred in a city, a thoroughly urban environment, where Thomas Edison founded the General Electric Co., this experience ranks high in my encounters with the natural world – up there with a monarch butterfly landing on my shoulder and a squirrel who climbed up my arm when I leaned over to offer him a peanut.