in a thin soil of its own making
over slabs of ancient sea floor
the vacant shell of a pine
still stands below the ridge crest
gapped open like an iron maiden
with horns of wood
where branch collars
expanded ring by ring
now left behind when
the rest of it rotted out
the limbs they anchored gone
that whole green cathedral
in an afterlife where birds
can perch within
and snowflakes
fine as the hairs on a caterpillar
the squall hits just
as I clear the trees
painting us all white
in a matter of minutes
every twig and pine needle
furred with absence
and hours later when i hike
back up from the other side
following an abandoned
haul road through the rocks
it happens again
the valley lost in whiteout
and i descend through a blur
glasses safe in my pocket
telling myself it’s a spring snow
here and gone
that a glimpse is all we get
of winter any more
trees turned into
a forest of ghosts
as i reach the car
the view finally opens up
a snowy field green
with winter wheat
and a factory holding
5000 hogs they say
though nothing emanates
but a faint hum
the length of its roof pristine
in laboratory white
Canoe Mountain
PA State Game Lands 166
March 10, 2024