January wind

draws a circle on the snow with a trapped leaf

diseased laurel leaves

red and green against the snow— Merry fucking Christmas

even with these special seats squirrels still make a mess

pale clumps of mountain laurel light our way

slumming it in the leaf duff still looks fabulous

fine hairs stirring from the photographer’s breath

as if some logger felled a tree of ice

I don’t notice the hunter standing in a tree

I hold onto an apple core until it turns brown

even on land it still steers with its tail

a glimpse of twisted heartwood mosquito in my ear

gnats follow the branching cracks in its skin