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Elk in the White WindI have made a scarf for you. It is plaid--
not to match your accent, but your mountainside.
It can snow there, midsummer.
How strange to know white
could surround you. I have not seen you cold.
The cabin juts between summit and lake
where fish stop along the beds like statues.
You write about their grey hard bodies
cracking on the stove. The taste of earth, startling
against the brittle nothing of outside.
I imagine long shadows on the flats. Lost footprints
under a frost sun and chough wingspan--
tones of a landscape. Elk lift their heavy heads
to the sharp wind, listening.
You stand in the doorway, your eyes on them
and the distance; how you translate
the contrast between morning and afternoon.
The scarf turns several colours at your neck;
noticeable against your mountain. I’ll remind it
that you are different, that you won’t be staying.
Lia Brooks |
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