Since the single foot dump
the Widow Wyile has been gliding
along woodland trails
with other Jackrabbits clipped
into long slim curving boards
beneath their legs and feet
hands looped into strapped poles
pushing and pulling
propelling themselves upon
scant snow because it is January
you know how it goes
pole kick slide pole step
around that rut that stone
turn into a snow spruce
alley still full rich
with winter quiet
deeper powder branches
laced into crystal cloaks
Jackrabbits lop along
literally transporting
themselves with delight
noses aquiver in fresh woods air
graceful ears alert
eyes taking in the trail ahead
for breaks in snow where streams
seep through or machinery
rudely busted cover
at points like these they squeeze
through trees to circumvent
exposed waters hearts aching
a little or a lot for all
clear cut blocks and rutted floors
while also grateful for the trail
the trees the tracks
that here and there
appear to either side of their skis
bounding hare impressions
rounded bobcat prints
clawed coyote marks
and every now and again
skirmishes and vital exchanges
etched for a time
in the snow