Raymond A. Foss Poems

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Camera and snowshoes,
head down, focused on the little things,
the tracks in the layered crust of snow,
ice and snow really
the tunnels of the voles,
the turned shape of the dead leaves,
clinging still to the branches, the twigs
The subtle sound of the trees
caressing each other, high in the canopy
a dance called by the wind
A distinctive crack of gunfire,
echoing in the still cold forest
And me, out in the northern wood
without any blaze orange

December 7, 2007

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