November days I scour the woods
for windfall, blowdown . . . young trees
the high winds tore or toppled, old trunks
not yet rotted into fresh earth, uprooted
white pine, its bark gone, pale dry limbs
I snap off, drag & carry, align & pack down
twigs & limbs & trunks all rise into great
piles — over-winter dens for skunks & voles
weasels, rabbits, & mice . . . a snow-clad
mound mimes an igloo — now picture
feasts, song & dance, the partnering off
plumping wombs, young in fur-lined nests
such imaginings might be, or might not
possibly my brush piles simply rot
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