this ignorance of mine is deep
as the cloudless sky
in which a small
woodpecker is tapping
having somehow heard
the faint stirring of a grub
i follow a deer track
to its source in a deer bed
a snow-free patch of leaves
shaped like a body
in the pines in the pines
where the sun comes undone
i follow a creak
to its source in the wind
rocking an oak snag
upon which so much must hinge
a barred owl query at noon
elicits a raven croak
this too is poetry
i only have to listen
Short Mountain
February 18, 2024