the thaw might
be imaginary
uneven the way
the fog covers it
there are dead
leaves frozen in time
still
unaccounted for
the canine
doesn't miss anything
when the
hillside is slipping
new directions
will be chosen
where there's
brush there are hopeful roots
beneath the
topsoil
lies the sound
of past hooves
colored in the
mud
of past
migrations
origins are
yet to be recognized
footprints are
more
than first
impressions
when the fog
lifts rivers break free
--- e b bortz
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