written in snow

the epic journey
of a mouse

coyote

whose woods these are
while we sleep

fisher tracks

the swaying shadows
of trees

no jets

for hours the sky
unlined

no visitors

to track up my snow
mourning dove wings

out before dawn

the perfect fit of foot
to footprint

I was lost

and didn’t know it. I had a cellphone-shaped hole in my heart.

turkeys in snow

each footprint resembles
a bird in flight

The first people to make flutes from bones:

what must they have believed about music to search for it there?

But fists are lonely

vulnerable things that can never match the strength of linked hands.

In the coming chill

we will all have to become subnivean.

drifted snow

a doe follows the bootprints as far as she can