Walking the line

This entry is part 5 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses


High winds. I press an ear
to the trunk of a ridge-top oak
and hear nothing but wind.

My footprints in the snow
are more than erased;
they’re raised up, scattered like ashes.

The woodpecker must hear any sound
an oak can make.
It taps out a response.

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