We walked the quiet woods, cameras dangling
from our necks, the air cold and still. Soon our
steps became further spaced as you
wandered away, following the scent of your
camera’s eye, discovering anew ice-
rimmed leaves, a feather stuck to a tree,
brittle wands of willow.
Isn’t every single day, a rare occasion?
Isn’t every moment fresh with new possibility?
Listen, said e. e. cummings. There’s a
hell of a good universe next door: let’s go!
And so we went. Creating our own zig-zagged
trails through stands of birch and ice-tipped spruce, holding our own in this white icy
world; moving, pausing, click click click.