I build a hut
in the spruce forest
before anyone
knows the narrow path
leading here—

the moon comes uninvited

Morning—
on the small tufty hill
overlooking a meadow,

curling up in the sunbeams,
like a fox
after a long night’s hunt,

a blackbird rustling
in last year's oak leaves

in the distance
the drumming
of the great spotted woodpecker

I don't walk to get somewhere
I get somewhere to walk

I follow a narrow path
through the thorny
underbrush

the game trail ends
as if erased
in forking trails

Today
the pines
stand silent

inviting me
deeper in

soft ground
underfoot,

my steps
are light.

There may be a way
through this forest

—it’s perhaps
where I end

I go for a walk in the early morning
into the pathless forest
in knee-deep fresh snow

the firs and spruces in white disguise
lost in the forest
I know so well

the soft whistle of a bullfinch,
I stay awhile

then I come across tracks
—tracking myself

Ducking under the livestock fence,
the taut barbed wire
catches the back of my jacket

I hang there, a scarecrow
wriggling free

—I crawl beneath
where the badger passes
at dawn

Frost in the moss
long fir shadows
the early sun
warming the frozen ground,
steam rising

deeper in the forest
a mob of crows cawing
and overhead jackdaws
heading that way

I sit still

my back against a fir
drinking hot tea