where a buck rubbed
the felt from his crown
fog drifts through the trees
without getting snagged
the day after Christmas
it’s not accurate to say the ground is bare
it hosts a 10-million-piece puzzle
of the fallen in brown and gray
a hickory nut still in its hull
is riding out the rain
like my last lost idea
nestled among roots
a red flourish of surveyor’s paint
flakes from a dead oak
while a power pole marked up by bears
is turning green
who knows what markings
might outlive us
stay too long in one place
and all the faces change
the once-vernal pools
now hold water year-round
which means we’re witnessing
the birth of a bog
it fattens on raindrops
each one a bull’s eye
the water seems murky
but it’s only the fog’s reflection
down below this cloud ceiling
a train blows its horn three times
instead of the usual six
i keep listening for the rest
my fingers grow cold
daylight begins to fade
shadows flit through the woods
heading for their roosts
at a crossroads of trails
traffic is light
just the clouds and me and then
just the clouds