Wind relents against my barn in drifts
that sway like sheets pegged to a line, scours
a patch of ground behind the house, now lifts
the fan tailed hawk. Riding to devour,
his shadow darkens the snow-sealed tunnel
where mouse has hungered its translucent blue
way across the upper field – runnel
of roots, thistle and grass under new
crust that passing pads of fox and mink
belie. Safely stored till noon heat digs
to peel space from fallen branch, link
a secret embroidery of budding twigs,
survivor’s fragile dare unmask. Wanderer
snatched, flung limp, and softly plundered.
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Poems