Thicket

Alone in deep snow in this northern country, it’s January and
I’m miles and months from anyone else, (or so it seems….)
A thicket of slender birch twigs and thin head-high branches cross
my field of vision.  I remember mom saying how grandpa Ray
planted birches in their front yard in Portland as soon as they moved
to the city from the Wisconsin farm. He was a timber cruiser first
in the forests of the upper Midwest, then western Oregon. How I wish
I could have known my part Swede, part Chippewa , red-haired
Grandfather.  Mom heard him curse only once when he hit his thumb
with a hammer, she was shocked.
Crunch crunch!
                               Crunch crunch!                Crunch crunch! 
Blue sky listening without one word.
Clapping mitts together to stay warm, these wet boots quickly frigid
do their best to step through heavy snow dumped late last night.
Feet become rigid, toes numb, one by one. Mind’s clearing, more
awake in this brisk air.  A tiny bird with a blue breast flutters
then takes off--
I jump, let out a whoop, one boot almost flops loose!—she’s flying from
this tangle of birches in a frenzy, just misses my red nose, a flurry          
of small wings whip upwards into frozen sky, suddenly I see nothing,
everything is adrenaline and visceral, even those silent monologues
that the wearied mind conjures somehow cease.  Being startled brings relief,
thank you little bird!
       
      Crunch crunch! 
                                      Crunch crunch!
                                                                         Crunch  crunch!
Eyes water, tingle from all this beauty, nose welcomes earthy smells
of fertile green things growing (somehow) in winter, my restored sight’s slow
to register what’s actually here, and ears can’t know for certain if that’s a wild boar
roaring  behind that stand of trees, or what’s friend or foe or family, less or more, under
or over, far or near, thawing or frozen, what may be purely phantasma-goric in
the thicket of my thoughts or whether your death last October is real, like this cold
an unseen penetrating force, no matter where I might look or hide, walk, careen or fly.