Roughing It In The Bush

This is experimenting in voice. The Rumi and the Szymborska are spilling out, and I don't know how it works. Help!

This is the morning,

this is the hunter,

this is the forest snow.

Walking behind you, I wonder why

we are the only species

with the capacity to ignore.

Were we birds

on the wing of some migratory path,

there would at least be salutation.

But for now I breathe quietly

and try to match

the rhythm of your feet.

You are looking for something

beyond my understanding,

so I don't focus on 

following the path

so much as the bootprints.

I begin with myself

step before step

and only the crows note my passage.

If you look behind

and find me gone

when you arrive,

it is because I finished before you

and took to flight

for other hunts.