This entry is part 20 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses


The spruce grove
at the top of the hollow
harbors a north-woods chill.

Seated on a runner sled
I hurtle down into
the sunlit field,

my shadow like a witching rod
stretched out before me,
alive to every bump and dip.

Series Navigation← PastoralValentine’s Day dreams →

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.