I stop to listen for the owls. Have deer been here, these tracks? Promises to owls come easy, to fellow human travelers, not so much. Keep crunching through the snow-cold night all silver-blue and star-lit. Walk down miles of hidden roads not taken, hard to see in this white moonscape full of owl-song. Go where depressions lead, frost-covered furrows. Before I left tonight I thought of you. Sleep. By morning I’ll be far away.
Wren Donovan Published in Livina Press, Issue 6, Fall 2023
