Following the elusive, the mystery, the silence

I make my way through the forest.

Around me

tall white pines and bare oaks.

Slender green needle sprays

and curls of old leaves.

The only sounds are

me breathing hard,

a caw, caw, caw here and there,

the crunch of my steps

as I walk through deep snow.

I am following a deer trail.

Sweet, narrow paths

occasionally dotted

and splashed.

My gait is slow

and noisy.

I am following where

they have led me.

I stop.

The trail opens into

an oval,

a shallow depression

in the snowy forest floor.

They have slept here,

bent a twig, flattened leaves.

I sink to my knees,

hands together,

head bowed.

Teach me your ways,

brother and sister.

I want to know your

mystery, your elusiveness,

how to be silent.

Teach me your ways.

I trail one ungloved

finger along a smooth

tableau of white.

Cold, heat, wet sting.

Angles of sun

bend light along

the grainy whiteness.

Tiny prisms of color.

I don't know how long

I have been here,

but my breathing is easier

and I turn.

I want to know

what is like to sleep

on the forest floor

so I lay down and look up.

High above, leafless branches

sway and touch and gently tap

to each other.

What was white is

turning softly to pink.

Time to sit by the fire

and sip tea.

I must go back.

Soon the deer will emerge.