Who Owns These Woods by Dave Seter

I think I know who owns these woods,

meeting a dog walker along the way,

dogs nowhere in sight—herding breed—

off leash chasing squirrels. 

Dangerous, I ask, hoping not as wildcats.

Yes, she answers, when they get kicked—

by steer—but we all need to express ourselves.

I nod, my head on a swivel, wish us all luck.

If we do the right thing ninety-nine times, then

one time out of a hundred the hand may slip

on gripped leash, gun, or bottle.

What odds will you give me for freedom today?

Statistics and home remedies no longer apply.

Take the unexpected danger of wild cats crouching

to take what blood you thought was yours.

And you thought you owned these woods.