The Morning Hike
The rabbits are no help, no guide,
for their paw prints go sideways
while my actual feet go up
in the shallow snow that covers the path.
If the snow were any deeper,
I would slow and watch the placement
of each foot; or any deeper,
and I would not chance it.
Almost to the top, I see that a rabbit
has changed course and is now going up
and I follow the little prints, and smile
when I see how the rabbits have avoided
The snow-covered anthill, leaving prints
only around the base, as if in recognition
of the tiny ones living below, far below
in their tunnels and cubby holes.
I look up at my friend, the tall dead pinon,
and I think she looks especially cold
without her thick green and I see how still
her branches are with not a bird on them.
When I turn back to the house,
I am not looking for rabbits to help me
for I step back into my definite prints
and ignore the delicate foursomes.
I think instead of the poem I will write,
the words crowding to mind, especially
the ones that think they will be
excellent in the first line.
. . .
thick trunk trees sway
while in the quiet
a thin sprig
of a twig
of a pinon
on the forest
by Michelle in the Trees