Utah’s new study aims to kill ‘as many cougars as possible’ —High Country News, March 24, 2026
Reclusive Monty,
as I like,
in kinship,
to call you,
visits in deepest night,
not to hunt,
as one might expect,
our abundant deer,
but to slack your thirst
at the water-filled grotto
lying just beyond
where I rest my head.
We each,
in our way,
share
the same story,
breathing life
here at seven thousand feet.
where our ridge overlooks
the Rio Grande Valley.
ancestral home to Puebloans,
who worship you
as “the beast god”,
revered beyond
any other animal,
including the bear,
for your lithe beauty
and stealth.
I see you
as a high desert
panther,
royalty of solitude.
Your prints
in the snow,
broad as my hand
wide,
leave me breathless,
in their suggestion
of power unbridled,
eager
to pounce.
Recent sightings
in the neighborhood,
remind how closely
our lives touch.
Though an Anglo
living in Indian Country,
it would crush me
to see your mythical
presence eradicated.
Another gift
of your species,
the smaller,
but far less shy,
Bobby the bobcat, loves
to roll around
on the welcome mat,
outside our glass-paneled
front door.
as he taunts ravens,
into a squall
of angry screams
and fly-bys.
I find it impossible
not to feel
an intense connection
with you creatures
of the wild,
Hunters,
yes,
you will
always be,
but much more,
as even Puebloans’
ageless reverence
for Bobby shows.
Which begs
the question:
should rampant
cravings
for hooved
trophies,
outweigh
sustenance
for one’s
innermost
bearings,
linking us
to nature?
Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, and others here and abroad. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 300 poems, published on four continents.