The Green Mountain Fisher Cat

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Alternate Earth
This is a piece that I wrote while living in a remote area of Vermont, USA.

Submitted: March 16, 2019

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Submitted: March 16, 2019

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The Green Mountain Fisher Cat 

by Trampas C. Graham 

 

There once was a collection of writings that explored all that is grand--

The beauty of nature and 

All its patterns.  A myriad of light and

Energy, all woven together with

Sacred geometry.

This is not that collection.

What lies beneath the ice

and lurks within the shadows of dens hidden

Deep inside the mountain

May reveal something more

Than the old morality stories of days gone by.

 

Who, or what--lives there, and

Lurks inside the stone

Behind covered branches and leaves 

Waiting for the time to pounce, 

Or forage, depending on its diet and cycle

May be only a totem from days gone by

Or real as the day is cold. 

The end of everything,

Of life itself.

Something that other collection of writings 

Never mentioned.

 

There was a fisher cat screaming in the wind

Like a murdered child, its shriek chilled the bones.

With no natural enemies, this creature 

Owns the mountain with a natural instinct

Second to none.

But here on the dark side of the forest,

Fisher cats are only heard and almost never

Seen.  So what lies in the cave?

There are shadows folded in on one another

Blackness upon black

And instinct itself says to stay away.

But stay away from what, from whom?

A modern mind says there are no fisher cats anymore

And yet the screams return each night, more fierce on

The darkest nights.

 

Adrenaline rushes into cold veins amid silent screams--

Run fast enough and perhaps by chance

Avoid this ancient memory that must have happened,

Or is it still happening?

Everyday there is a monster waiting to take us away:

A debt not paid, a bill forgotten

Until the cold returns and all must be made right again,

The heat must just turn on by itself and 

The channels must change if nothing more than to drown out

Those silent screams carried by freezing wind,

Those never ending sirens of emergency.

 

Surely this primitive mind serves a purpose--

Or is all that remains a totem pole to remind us of

Our very own Easter Island

At the end of its civilization:

Not a tree remained--

They were all sacrificed to memories 

Of elders, and glory, and war.

 

Then the wind came, and the island was

Truly barren.

Then, there were no bills to be paid anymore.

Is this really what anybody wants?

No bills, no channels, no trees.

 

We would all like to be blinded by the light

Crystalline and enlightened

But then who would ever really listen?

Would anyone really ever

Want to hear that fisher cat

And be warned, knowing that it was time

To go home again?

 

So much has been written about the first Thanksgiving

Its cornucopia of squash and gourds 

Tastes and smells, enough to overwhelm

Those poor starving protestants.

But who knows of the night before?

A storm had come deep into the mainland

And blended with the Canadian cold--

Confusing even the geese.

There was no word for 'superstorm' then,

Although many were sure it was the end of the world.

 

But when those Indians came, it was the beginning

Of a new world--and although not soon enough,

They became native people

Those who still know what lies beneath the ice

and understand the land like it was their own.

 

Where are those guides now?

Ask them about the superstorm

and why the raven circles, why it

Taunts us all.

 

Perhaps a trip into the forest is what we all need.

Lost, like a game show:

The one where the helicopter comes and drops

Chocolate and burritos to the winners.

 

Circumstances have led us thus far,

And although there is no reception here,

There is a sale on cell phones and flat screens

Just down the road, 

At the very end of the road, in fact.

The very end.

 

The fisher cat hasn't stopped tonight.

Although it isn't a cat at all, 

It is on the prowl

For poodles and all other old cats

Ready to take those who are 

Easily blinded by the light, 

Even those in love.

 

Ask the guides just how to get out of this.

Turn to them and remember 

Why the mind races to avoid the cave.

Why it races to avoid everything, 

and where it goes when no one is home.

When no one answers the phone, 

And no one cares

What happened to Easter Island.

 

There will come a time when all people will 

Want to know the truth.  But they won't 

Hear the painful parts, and no one will 

Understand because of it.

There will be no night before Thanksgiving 

And no one will know about the superstorm

That destroyed everything in its path.

All they will see are totem poles, 

Colorful enough with demonic faces 

And people will laugh.

They will laugh at anything, 

But they will not know

How to handle those cold, dark nights

When the screams come, 

They will never know what hit them.

 

But there are those of us

Who hear our guides in mountain winds 

And respect those dens hidden deep 

Within the stone.  We know the dark forest 

As a great womb, a fierce woman

Who feeds her young and protects them.

And although no one will listen, 

We know the way home, 

And we will not forsake it.

 

But what of the mother who

Loses her young?  She will 

Wail as the night is long

And she will not stop, 

Not for anything.

Her sobs will frighten us all

And remind us just how precious 

Life is.

 

She is the siren of Easter Island, 

Of all that remains, 

And she is crying

Like there is no tomorrow.

This is the cry of the world, 

One that never ends--

It pierces the darkest night

And carries across the miles.

It lets us know that we are still here

And we will not drown out her truth

Anymore.

 

Because even though the bills are paid and the heat is

On, even though Thanksgiving has come and 

Gone, everyone has a dark night now and then

And we are here to listen.  We will not disregard

Her pain, nor will we deny it.

We will listen until the end of the world.

We will honor her.

Her cries are our own, and we are grateful.

We are grateful for all that lives and has ever lived.

We are One, afterall.  Darkness or Light, 

Through the deepest pain and the longest nights, 

We are One.

And we will all cry sooner or later, that is--

If we really want to live at all.

We deserve that chance.

 

Perhaps this is what the light is like.

Perhaps the shadows that pierce it

Are real enough, and we can

Withstand them.  We are witness 

To this great unfolding, 

Like the layers of darkness 

Deep inside the cave of our own

Hearts.  There is a forest inside

Us all.  Let us explore it.

 

There is color in the half light, 

But can be so difficult to capture on these days

That this digital age will 

Only be remembered in black

And white.  And yet white itself 

Can be almost impossible to manage--

It washes out the pixels and comes across 

Much too bright.

The fisher cat is nowhere to be found in such light, however--

The snow reflects the rays so much, that no one can see

Anything worthwhile at all.


© Copyright 2020 Trampas C. Graham. All rights reserved.

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