Tracker

                                  In this borrowed field

                                  I cannot

                                  find the edges

                                  of the sky,

                                  or my vision,

                                  or my own heat.
 

                                  I cannot discover

                                  where to go

                                  permanently

                                  from here.

    
                                  Covered in light snow,

                                  the soft white sky

                                  feels strangely

                                  closed and warm. It

                                  coaxes me to

                                  remain here

                                  for at least

                                  one more night.

                                 The silence implies

                                 that I should make

                                 no future mention

                                 of music, or wonder

                                 where the owl flies,

                                 or shatter the brittle

                                 new ice that forms

                                 low in the furrows.

                                
                                 I will ponder 

                                 only the snow

                                 that pretends to fall

                                 gently around

                                 revealing everything.