Razorbacks haunt the forest.
Tusks poised, they pepper new snow
with hoofprints the size of quarters.
We never see them. Too shy
to indulge our love of wildlife,
they grunt and snort in the dark
like old men troubled by sex.
The winter hisses in the eaves.
We nurse the blights of daily life
and fuss over debts and debits.
Sometimes after chatting with folks
in the café we pun on boars
and bores but not too unkindly,
aware of our common descent.
We hope some flamingo dawn
raving breakneck over the hills
will catch the hogs still abroad
so we can glimpse them bristling
and shrugging off a vinyl world
too genteel to embrace them
while their primal hunger grins.
Smoky Quartz 