Walking weather in mud season.
Wending down the road that just
Hosted skiers, snowmobiles, sleds.
Eight paws, two noses, four ears,
Cracking from fox print to moose print
To last years elk carcass.
Spring sun sooths my shoulders.
Crisp air worries my ears.
Already the scale has tipped,
Favoring the roots stirring out of sight.
I can hear ice give way to water.
Water wending its way through ice,
Mixing with soil under the morning frost.
For a moment it’s the hard thud of
Then sliding from ice to mud,
We trudge our way home.