Friends of Acadia Poetry Award: Third Prize

Encounter

Looking straight past whiskers into eyes round and dark as his, the baby smiles, pats the grizzled jaw, utters syllables that mean: new nameable delight . . .             But when did this happen for the first time?             And where? In what cave or on what plain did wolf or coyote stretch, yawn, gaze from shallow yellow slits into human countenance and trust, patiently allow a tiny hand to brush its muzzle? Picture it now; stone age mother lost in pleistocene imaginings while the grey brute she would never dream to touch stands rooted, routed by an utter absence of plan in a small strange face . . .             What slow art widened the wild eyes, deepened them into mirrors of the child’s belief?

—Brooke Pacy

BROOKE PACY taught English and raised four children in Maryland, has published feature magazine articles and poetry, and has a novel out looking for publication. She and her husband spent eight summers sailing between Annapolis and the Canadian border, and now live full-time in Midcoast Maine.