No, not the factory lights
Nor the highway,
Nor the exotics
Dug in formally
Along the curb;

These could not speak,
But the voice was there,
Clear and poignant,
And we huddled
Once more in the thicket.

Was it winter, wilderness,
Or wildlife that we sought?
The day was harsh,
The wind bit cold,
And we found shelter.

Thick enough to lie upon
Above the ground,
A twiggy tangle;
Protected, concealed,
We were gratified.

I smell even now
Old leaves, willow,
And wet sticks;
Snow crystals melting
On chafed thin skin--

And squint implusively
From the yellow glare,
Streetlights, and
Traffic--"thirty years
On down the road."

01/23/2002

Posted on 01/23/2002
Copyright © 2025 Leonard M Hawkes