We cannot always hide from trouble pursuing us. Yet sometimes secrecy is prudent. So it happened in that distant forest long ago that a father and mother taught their boy how to look for them if trouble came and a separation was forced upon them. Here is how the lessons proved successful for Bentari. From chapter 4 “Ancestral Trail”:

“At last, the sign he sought, as if the lioness had chased him to it. Bentari scrutinized his father’s handiwork. Its ingenious design was a marvel of simplicity. Using whatever resources that were yielded by the locale, the mark was made to blend naturally into the background. No more than a greenish grey patch appeared to blight the tree trunk. Tarmani had used several profuse ingredients: mosses, lichens, bark, grubs, and his own saliva or urine. Then he applied the concoction, leaving behind its cryptic messages beneath a perfect camouflage. To the human eye, there appeared a festering boll or termite’s blight that would hardly warrant a second glance. Here, beneath Bentari’s grateful touch, lay the mark of his father’s ancestors. It was but one bold letter of the alphabet. It was the letter ‘B’.”

Thinking of surviving, I offer a few lines of poetry[1]—a reflection of our modern world, some swirling emotions and questions that beg and force consideration:

North wind icing ways through souls
at speeds that only the watching stars appreciate
Flood tides well up around the world
cement-like over workshops and dwelling places
Silver timber wolves mourn in stone dens

warmer than any hearth fire—but they do not weep
Time is a windy mess and tides that seem
so regular to our eyes are tsunamis waiting
Still ponds reflect sun light while accepting
warmth and for this—surviving fish give thanks
Lovely lichen on a tree trunk cannot hide
from car exhaust and fumes of carbon monoxide
Cheetah toucan coalesce a chimpanzee
and octopus krill salamander gila lizard and a fly
Tangled brush springs forth in dappled shade
beneath bromeliads in the canopy labyrinth above
Where on this blue planet does a baby’s cry
mean anything other than bring milk or make me dry

[1] From “Hyber-Nation”, © Tim Brown 2011