A cougar is perched up high in a yellow pine, hidden. Below him, a trail cuts through grasses, and I see his paw print in bare dirt, formed when the mud was thick. Now, it’s dried into cracks, wrinkles in earth, his movement of the past solidified. He doesn’t worry about me, the noisy one, whose feet crunch upon leaves, dried long before the last of summer appears. 

The turf is so dry and brittle. It’s a fragile crust. One hard step and I think the entire world would crumble. Flowers of the new spring have already begun to wilt, dropping petals. Their flakes stick to my socks, scratch my ankles. 

Even now, the grass begins copying the color of the sun. No matter how good of a watcher you are, you can miss their intricacies, their dance with the wind, a courtship of eons, and their ever-slow movement, a reach for light. 

Breaking into the sky, Adams, Hood, St. Helens, even Ranier surround themselves in blue. Their heads adorned with hats made of clouds, attempting to pierce gravity, the last mystery.  

Sometimes I worry about movement…the sun, the earth, our movement…my movement. It’s too easy to believe in one singular movement, especially my own.  

The cougar will come down from the yellow pine at dusk, when it’s difficult to see him. He is the color of the sun. He will use the sound of the dry flowers and deep grass… and when the coming night quiets the wind, he will search for the slightest movements.