Cold sun slips from a ruddy sky.
Like a great hunter I trudge
alone through the snow. I stop
and hear nothing, and then the wind
rises darkly from the pines.
Last night it snowed again.
Gunless, wielding only my eyes,
I follow tracks of a single deer
beneath oaks crowned with last light.
Desiccated leaves, a ghostly flock,
perch on crusted branches.
The trees glower above the snow
The question dissolves in chatter
of wingless rattling leaves.
Sapphire sky climbs to violet,
the stars sharp as crystals.
If I were to die, I would
want to die here, trudging
these drifts, so close on the trail.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 15, 2016 — by John Savoie
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
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