Victoria Shorr

Victoria Shorr lives in California.



Lost Cat

by Victoria Shorr



What I'd miss are the hills
And this smell—how to call it?
It must be part sage.
Though it's not really that.

More like heat and the dust,
God, it's good here, there's no one,
Two guys, not quite normal,
But harmless. That's key

For a woman out hiking.
No dogs are allowed,
But mostly I bring her,
She's small, who could care?

Not coyotes whose scat,
As I've learned it is called,
We kick, try to make out
The berries, and fur.

"Lost cat," says a sign
As you enter this place.
"Dream on," laughed the children.
Lost cat here means lost

In the Biblical sense,
As the pioneers said it,
Out here in the wolf days,
When "lost cat" was them.

Still I've jumped back a few times
From rattlesnakes here.
And learned if you hear it,
It isn't a snake.




©Victoria Shorr