they are snow laden, silent
save the gurgle of the brook

no leaf is left to stir in the breeze
though they make soft bed for my boots

I come upon the fawn, fetal curled,
felled by winter's white bone

where is the doe who left her here,
far from hunters' easy squeeze of the trigger

what perverse tilt of the earth brought
her forth out of season

and what reason was there for me
to stumble upon her--still, frost painted

hungry beast will find her,
fill its belly, bury a bone if that is its custom

her only dirge the fading sound
of my footfalls receding in the wood

though the trees will stand sentinel,
patient though not penitent, awaiting
the sprout of spring

summer song yet a dream