Tracks carved through crust,
Splayed, cloven, deep.
Moose, maybe this morning?
Pads pressed in petite fives,
Canine cannonballs noses flared,
Whoofing air that is occupied, invisible.
I’m in the rear,
Stumbling snow steps,
Watching the scene unfold.
Then just leftovers, empty space.
Hooves and paws belied by prints.
Suddenly ancient creatues imprinted.
Time in its intestinal folds,
In this space, we huddled together:
Moose, dogs, wooly mammoths
Me.
Put Out to Pasture 
Reblogged this on Russell Pennwright’s Blog.
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Thanks!!
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Loved it. Not one single boring line, fast and quick pace.
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I really appreciate your comment. I was exactly working on that pace and I’m happy you sensed that!!
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A great writer achieves the intended effect. You are great indeed.
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