At times, in my travels through the wild snowy places
I’ve stepped on the nothing about half an inch above the snow
So that I left no track, disturbed nothing,
ghosting past exhausted deer and moose huffing through chest deep drifts
Searching out that last spruce bud within reach.
By sheer coincidence, I happen to always be alone
On these sorties so that, having left no track,
I’ve also left no proof of my passing.
One time I stomped through deep snow from
One copse to another, sweating and heaving
Behind me, single file, a herd of deer picked and snickered in my wake.
When we arrived, they frolicked at
an ecstatic pace until all the snow was tamped down and walkable
Cleverly lifting their reach to the tiny buds, they could not touch before.
I tasted a tiny maple bud
masticating, zen-like and found it good.
We all chewed for awhile and contemplated Thoreau
David Bulley writes poems and songs and stories and shares them with people he thinks might enjoy it. He is an administrator in a high school. Also he can stand flat footed and piss over a dump truck.