A Trapper Dreams of Silver Deer

The ridge is crusted with blue snow. 
Evening descends, learning its way 
to the river, the slow deep core of winter. 

It is seven miles into the mountains, 
past anything he might have recognized: 
the turns in the wind 

or the first shadow of the moon. 
Under the snow the trapper stirs 
in his blankets, his body vaguely aware 

that the cold is turning darker. 
In a longer journey, through a night 
as tall as the wind, he finds 

the last curve of transparent light. 
The hawk pulls down the stars 
and screams the night home.