Late January, in the cold
clear wood
Boots crunch through layers
of snow and ice
Breath catches in beard and
scarf
Freezing in the air before
me
Leaves clatter in the wind
between
the otherwise still forest
A clearing, by man or fire,
out in an opening where the
sun bursts through
signs of the denizens of the
glen
tell-tale markings, little
confessions,
in turned soil, crushed
tracks of all sizes
and a field of scat, of the
white-tailed deer
Saturating myself in the
senses awoken
away from all but these
sights and sounds
gathering them in, focus
wrapping in the cold, in the
silence,
in the smell of the balsam
and pine,
and in the taste of the ice
Following the footfalls
first of deer
then of vole and chipmunk
Watching the shape of stem
and vine
of leaf and tree, frozen,
dormant
the changed impressions of
the land
under snow’s winter blanket
Losing time behind the lens
quiet in the forest, the
clearing
deeper, deeper, away from
home
Luxuriating in the quiet
the simplicity, the peace
of that time and place
Edited November 17, 2013
A Field of Scat – v2
A Field of Scat
North Conway, NH, at least 6 years earlier
(with photo in original post)
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poems are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005,
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at Ray Foss
for usage. See all 26,510+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
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