Morning Poem, December 31, 2015

In the deepest wood

In the steepest ravine

The creek banks were red mud walls

The stream was rocky here

And he stepped from stone to stone

Some solid, others rocking with his weight.


He was dressed for the cold and for the rain

His boots higher than the creek was deep

He rested the twenty-two over his left forearm

The butt of it under his arm

And waded from hole to hole

Clearing each trap and re-baiting

A slice of apple on a stick

He dunked it and shook it under the cold water

To erase any trace of human scent

And stuck the twig in the shallow

One step before the sunken trap.


Over the far ridge he saw the columns of woodsmoke

Rising from the chimneys of the town

And he walked on

Wishing the creek would never end

Wishing the morning would never end


Copyright 2015

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