Time in woods binds no man.
Breath unlocks a taut heart drawn down the trail.

The forest’s spirit a violin, playing one note. It’s strings sing true.
They pierce and leave a song heard nowhere else,
captured in a veiled day when the slated sky offers one complexion.

The cathedral aisle of a meandering watercourse slides between doting cedar and pine,
spouting vapors skyward in pirouetting mists that fold and bend as they climb,
scattering in tattered tree tops. Abandoned there they wither and waste away.

In this season no technicolor, just an achromatic gift,
conferred by partners in wood high on a hill,
birch, shadowed spruce and gray aspen rise over blue snow on the crest.

The time for silence has gone, everywhere men tread.
And if they are not in sight, the forest sighs in pine boughs
and groans as widow-makers lean against sturdier partners who give solace in the wind.

Sluggish breath overcomes a stumbling core, confined by chemistry’s requirement,
and presses through a restrained heart                                                                                    finding rhythm when exertion teeters near exhaustion,
the line between hounded, bends, exhilaration the harvest.

The track tuned and supple under the cold, white carpet
makes no judgements and draws no conclusions.
It invites kick and glide.

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