Gill McEvoy
My boots crush the pine-bark that lines the path,
separate its frozen knit-together mass.
A blackbird rushes in to scratch and forage
in the damage I have caused.
I watch, respectful, at a distance.
The fat sky opens, births a silk of snow,
parachutes it down, folding world in silence
except for the blackbird’s rummaging.
As I move on the crunching of my boots
seems suddenly obscene.
The blackbird, taking off,
fires after me a round of squawks
as if I have deprived him of something.
Window
Amy Bouse