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You Must Know Things By Their Moving Away

Published onDec 09, 2024
You Must Know Things By Their Moving Away
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You Must Know Things By Their Moving Away

From leavings, you may learn the animals. Look for tracks
of bobcats in mud and dust. Droppings and, in them, details


of what fruit (the pits) or meat (the fur) was the fox’s feast.
Flattened places in front of the berry bushes where a bear stood,


reaching. Burrow into which a beaver bowed. Path into brush
deer filed along, too slender for your feet to follow.


From far off, you recognize ways your family moves –
their walks, their talking gestures, even with backs turned.


Likewise with birds, you can see whether they are calm or fidgeting
on the branch without ever coming close enough to view markings,


then how the wings look in flight. You must know
things by their moving away. The hand motions


of your husband will stay (as long as he does lift them) the same,
after his first, young face has been furrowed and replaced.


Concentrate on the silhouette slipping into shadow,
all that can be glimpsed from your distance. Be glad


of the field guide, so-named because it was the first book
among the bulky volumes of science with this intent:


Here is a small thing you may carry with you.


Volume 45, no. 2, 2017



Rose McLarney’s collections of poems are Colorfast, Forage. and Its Day Being Gone (Penguin Books) and The Always Broken Plates of Mountains (Four Way Books). She is co-editor of A Literary Field Guide to Southern Appalachia (UGA Press) and Southern Humanities Review. Rose is Lanier Endowed Professor of Creative Writing at Auburn University.


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