Fresh snow becomes a canvas,
your life written during the
edges of the day.
Tracks weave through
the woods,
hunting.
I am intrigued by you, the
double edged sword of
your existence in a world
we have claimed.
Rarely are you seen,
shadows crossing an open field
through the waves of snow,
the crystalline night measured
by your calling.
Your devastation raises ire
and prompts falling tears.
The warmth of wool
tinged with blood,
heartbeats stilled and
flesh left to decay.
I implore you to remain
hidden in the wild,
to live as you did before
we arrived,
hunting hare and deer
through the wooded meadows.
Yet as a coin has two sides,
you live a life of chance,
and that may be your demise.
I mostly run on gravel roads, the kind that promise solitude and dust. My pace has slowed, as has most of life, become more of a quiet watching than a frenzied doing. I am less Read more…
Five can be An awkward number, Sharp edges and curves All at once. There is nothing even And measured With five, One side always outnumbers the other, One partnerless outlier. But five is prime, Divisible Read more…
