A Hard Winter
Dec 18 2021
Where I could see something had disturbed
the wind-swept surface
of freshly fallen snow.
Scattered feathers,
blood, flash-frozen
turning to rust.
Evidence of struggle.
Perhaps an unwary bird
in the jaws of a fox.
Whose last remains
will disappear beneath the next virgin snow,
or be taken by a strong gust of wind
tunnelling down the trail.
In a hard winter
a family of kits, temporarily fed.
And a bird
whose mate never returned.
Either that, or a solitary bird
who passed in utter anonymity,
unlamented
unmissed.
Except for my brief glance,
and the feeling of poignancy I had
to see life and death
and mortal struggle
reduced
to such a small transient blemish
in the vast expanse of snow.
In our walk tonight (“our” being mine and the dogs'), I barely processed this passing glance. But in retrospect, thought more on it. And then, when I had an hour to sit down at the computer hoping something to write would come to mind, the feeling became clearer, and seemed worthy of a poem.
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