TRACKING SNOW

I didn’t need red snow to know

a deer died on this spot

between two small maples.

I heard shots

and thought of rifles lifted,

rifles steadied,

and I’d seen the deer-stand

newly re-enforced

with a few long nails,

and here along the trail

they’d dumped runty apples.

‘Twas the season. 

The blood was frozen,

maroon, mixed with hairy

skin and maple leaves,

near a pool of stiffened guts.

I touched my abdomen.

They didn’t need tracking snow

to find their deer

where it had fallen, in sight

of our laundry line.  Sometimes

snow just makes

easy things difficult,

and sometimes it buries a mess

that you can walk right over

all winter.

Connie Wanek lives in Duluth.  She'll have a new book next year from Copper Canyon Press, entitled On Speaking Terms.