World in the Woods

Though the ill-used path and trodden fern Told of no song, the animate word Of water like a chattering bird Livened the brook at tree-root and turn.

And here where the sun seldom achieves Solar perspective, a young deer's skull Lay topside up—an unbeautiful Relic allotted to last year's leaves.

With my boot I gingerly touched the thin Papery bone that flaked at once, As a knob of snow after winter suns Trickled drop by drop on the under-chin.

Music the bird-voiced water told Closed on my heart, not unaware Of the useless skull, as the brook's loud air And the intimate song in the vein ran cold.