Paul Bilger, Paper Cranes (digital photograph)
The heaviest month of being.
We drag along, the whisper
of bones on snow, the crackshot
of icy branches snapping as if
the trees have given in to the gun.
How long do we tunnel through the light,
the burning white of ground and sky?
Your prints remind me I am not alone.
In the darkest hours I dream of you,
Wolf—the rifle in the closet.