Draft: Winter’s poem

High in the white pines
snow heavy limbs tip
the days’ drifts in a tumble.
The silence of the forest
disrupted by the weight of a squirrel
it’s body, a dark arc of fur
against bright skies
and evergreen, as it bounds
for the next branch, leaving
the sounds
of small avalanches
falling
to the ground.

 

(Inspired while out cross-country skiing with my wife on Lost Lake Trail in Northern Michigan.)

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