Township's roads snake,
eating gorges, ogres of
egress deep in the
mountain trail. Light lies still, long
river, a fevered
vision. Hawks swirl down, among
the clouds, drunk with flight.
They spy the winding down of
emigres, escape
the wilds in their homes; hoes caked
with mud, feet draped in
blood. The clot of breath flusters
up & down the thin
dew of dawn, digging deep the
hibernating bear
& mole, & behind them, a
flute sings everywhere,
everywhere at once. Siren
from the township rings
& wears thin the flute's melody.
Someone cracks a joke;
someone titters & from the
bird roost, snow tumbles
down. The flute soars over the
avalanche & watch
from above. The hawk cannot
believe people will
find laugh in their sudden death..
