Chris Skiles
The forest
Shines a shadow that comes forth
From the night
And the dull sight of a silent snowfall.
The animals inside
Try to scurry and hide
Inside the leaves and sodden brush.
Inside to shy
Away from the thieves and the shush
Of hunters finding their frosted prey.
And the snow lightly falls
And here I take a walk
Amidst this sea of white trees.
And I hear a bough snap
And the thud and the crack
Of a falling branch
Hit the ground
And then make a muffled sound,
Then there is silence all around.
And I hear a bird chirp,
Maybe a whipporwhirl
On a birch
But it is not.
I am disappointed; I pointed
To its perch
High above the forest floor
But then I heard it
Chirp no more.
And as I look away
At this forest before me
I think of a tale to tell
A little story.
But there is no story
Neither behind nor before me
Only endless green trees
Covered in snow and white glory.
I must keep walking
The trees are calling.
And it is I who am mourning
In this forest so daunting.