it’s january just by the light
and the emptiness of the forest
with so few birds or insects
what’s left to hum or buzz
unfrozen earth under my boots
still has a bit of give
one day i’m in the fog
translucent and vague
the next day it’s wind
obsessively turning pages
fog lends the moss
a certain radiance
i step on it as if sinking
into the lushest life
wind brings percussion
to the treetops
creaking and clacking except
in the heart of the spruce grove
where a woodpecker taps
to the end of a limb and flies off
fog may make me
a better listener
but the wind shows me
how to breathe
from that still and empty place
deep within