In a wood stirring with elk blood and rorid air,
the invisibles were all ears: all lays and hoofprints.
I heard one miles deep —
a bugle from a womb of black spruce.
I remembered my own dark language,
hedged by hemlock and fir, guarded by forked roads,
diverging arrows. An unearthing requires more than a compass.
So what now of those fragrant rooms, empty and aseptic,
trimmed with brainwashed flowers?
Shh, listen — a rustling of the watchful,
who wade unbridled through brushland.
A fracas of ravens in the treetops: I thought of you
and your crow’s feet, your hulking, hooded eyes.
The day you were pulled from unbounded space,
trees toppled and the needle pointed North.