Relearning
by Kimberly Fetherson
One day, caribou will stumble into a clearing
over rotted campground amphitheater benches
and clamber onto the lichened stage.
It will be the first time in years the stage
is occupied by anything larger than a passing
racoon seeking shelter from summer storm
when the cow looks up from grazing ghostly
flashes of tourists will illuminate, for a
moment, the seats that once were
places people sat rapt with attention
to hear about constellations and ice sheets
under never-dark midnight sky. She snorts
at the echo of a child in the front row
into giggles as he raises his hand
to ask a question "where did you go?"
another echo steps through the cow
and she goes skittering off the stage, stops at
the edge of the clearing
and turns back to look. A hatted figure—one
that used to chase her off of the hard
dark ground into the brush—crouches
at the edge of the stage and takes a book from
the child, luminous white-blue hand solid on
the page. They seem to smile,
though their face is obscured by mist
and raise their hand. The child-echo
does as well. Wind swipes the clearing
wiping away the figures, chasing the cow
back to the low boreal forest fog.