To The Lynx I Saw Once When I Was A Kid (first letter)

I still remember you slinking across the snow. It was so cold and bright. A kinetic mess of hard shadows threatened to overwhelm me. I often imagined this sort of thing while wandering the winter woods.
It was quiet except for the wind in my ears. You were indifferent to me, like an unfriendly neighbor. You were as nonchalant as the tree trunks.
I still recall that sudden sense of mis-recognition.
What was this place we inhabited? How could it possibly allow for your existence (or mine)? How could anyone assume the right to name it — and why Parry Sound? The abandoned shack my friends had discovered farther in (full of graffiti, torn up porn magazines and crumpled beer cans) was now unquestionably repulsive. My presence became a violation that could never be forgiven.
You moved passed me in an instant, faster than it took for me to sense it. Where have you been all this time? While wondering about this I sometimes recall first reading about the domestication of cats in Ancient Egypt — how they were once worshiped as Gods.
You were so concrete. Most everything has seemed too abstract ever since.