Craig Wisner

Sometimes You Find Nothing. (Los Padres, 12/13 thru 12/14/13)

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Twenty degrees beneath a diamond-cutter sky

lingering snow illuminated in crisp moonlight

we walk, breath steaming from throats, nostrils.

Burning wood, trading poems, trading sips of whiskey

weaving in and out of conversation and silence

looking upward, outward

-shooting stars, barn owls silently gliding, the cry of a distant coyote.

Sometimes you find nothing.

Breathe deep,

let frozen air sear lungs, ears

while walking alone away from the fire

-aware, alive, present.

. . .

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. . .

Gray morning light brings the donning of boots

deerskin gloves, the shouldering of a rifle.

The low groaning of an unseen bear drifts through the trees

-I drift slowly through the scrub.

Fox tracks, deer tracks, cut sharp and clean in the snow

robins, sparrows

darting in and out of brush

and the sun’s first beams piercing the canopy.

Listening, walking, following.


Fresh rabbit prints drawn across a snow tongue

leading into a small ravine, beneath the woodpile of a fallen tree.

Pupils wide, I make my approach

– I find nothing,

a ghost rabbit,

an empty lair,

and my mind returning once again,

suddenly aware of itself.

(Los Padres with Michael S., 12/13 thru 12/14/2013)

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One response

  1. Jacks in the creosote next. Give you something to pluck after.

    December 16, 2013 at 9:52 am

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