To me it seems I was here
before leaves drowned the trails
with rusty gold; weeks past,
wandering about in a green woods
and green corn towering
above my head, knowing not
particularly where I was, but
in search of some connecting tromp
of tracks to take me home, a loop.
Even my feet laugh now--
but for the corn might I
have seen this edge of field,
clogged tread with mud as today
in finding the desired leg of trail
bleeding with leaves as if shot
and amputated from one of the deer
that leaves steaming pellets
in the air in front of me
this november morning.
Amongst sleet and worries of hunters,
nose bursting with red and running,
mouth madly laughing-- feet slipping on
last defiant sprigs of green and tripping
on the desolate stalks of once-tall corn.
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