A TILT CALLED the Super Bowl will be played today,
But I fear I might miss the fine, fearsome fray.
A trail in the woods is calling to me,
Past three pines and a birch and a balsam fir tree
And the chirp of an eagle in the setting sun’s rays;
All call my attention, as they do on most days.
The scent of a cedar’s aloft in the breeze,
And the end-of-day voices of ten chickadees,
Or perhaps it is twelve, it’s quite hard to tell,
Though I know every one—I know them quite well.
And I might hear the owl, hooting deep in the woods
As I turn back toward home, where the old cabin’s stood
Since Nineteen and Thirty, that’s a long time ago.
And maybe I’ll arrive in time for the show,
For the game of all games, that’s played every year
But I know what’s important… is really right here.