in the January silence
my camera’s shutter
makes me jump
the sun is bright on the boulders
grains of old snow
rain down
from acrobatic birches
and oaks stretched out like yogis
filling in the sky
over floors of lichen-
clad quartzite
i sit with my back against
a tall white pine
gazing at its companion
how the plates of bark interlock
their endless variations in shape
and the woodpecker wounds
that have bled
extravagant white rivers
a raven spots
my red cap as usual
and gives my position away
the sun threads a weft of cirrus
it’s Epiphany Eve
i find fresh feather-
coats of ice
on all the woodland pools
where the trees’
shrunken images
have turned jagged and Cubist
while their high drama goes on
even in their present absence
a red-tailed hawk
sails past emitting
its eagle scream
an oak with a massive rack of limbs
can offer
travelers a perch
or frame a view
of the next mountain
so much like this one
except it faces us
and suddenly i see
how a vista
can be a mirror
the kind we’ve always wanted
that keeps its distance
here among the trees
i am glad just
to be in this body
the day before
a forecast snowstorm
to walk forest roads
that lead nowhere in particular
and take their time
