this is about a place i used to hunt. it’s state land in NY. gorgeous. what we pay taxes for.
(the hanging bog)
after the early morning snow tapers
off, the sun tries to shine in a pale blue
sky, sneaking through a peephole of thick white
clouds. thin lacy edges shining like gold
then gone, blown by high winds unfelt by me.
i sit in my tree stand, in weak sunlight,
snow flurries fluttering around my head.
a small breeze picks up out of the southwest.
i nibble on a cookie & try not to think about how
cold i am. now it’s snowing harder as
the buck i’ve been watching just out of range
realizes that i’m here & disappears
into a swirling cloud of white flurries.