20 March
       

the outermost spruce trees
rock in the wind
a grouse feather floats down

there's an owl pellet
in the middle of the trail
a gray gris-gris of rodent bones

I enter the grove
careful as a bridegroom
at each raised threshold of root

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Copyright © 2017 Dave Bonta All rights reserved
from Ice Mountain: An Elegy
Phoenicia Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission