A tall thin man moves through
November woods. Near but not quite.
Watching or not?
Grey hair and a dirty nylon jacket.
His small dog barks me alert.
On the narrow road a pickup truck passes
slowly. No smile just a frown and nod.
There’s frost in the shadows and I’ve learned
that walkers aren’t always welcome here.
Behind me in the distance, two hunters.
A rotting mound of brown apples, deer bait
at my feet. A partridge drums.
The voice of one black crow as I stand listening.