WINTER 2013 (Issue 77)

David Roderick

Running Brush

Shoots hug the lake. Beasts hollow. The snow shores out to a fallow fur. Once again I wish I could keep from crunching. When Thoreau heard a horn in his depth of woods, with its hardly-determined center, it warmed his winter. To him it suggested poise and gave confidence. Maybe it’s impossible to draw snow. Through limbs I catch some rosiness, the rim of the sky’s black dome. But it’s that sound I want, that sound. Thoreau said it was friendly as a hermit’s candle.