entering the wood
by the cold dark tree becoming mulch
where the soft moss grows thickly
in unmanageable mats
goodbye takes the shape of a gold ring lost
among red-brown needles
two fields separated by a young hedgerow
a dozen crows roost in the barren branches
on shallow furrows filled with frozen snow
the grey night heron lands amid the yellow grass
she turns up a red eye
for now the way becomes clear
crackling out across the frigid waste
push the wall of fear aside
we were made for breaking
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