The Pursuit of Signs
These things he knew;
the wind´s bite on his face coming over the frozen lake,
the perfect impression of feathers in snow
where tiny footprints terminated.
Elsewhere would be tufts of fur, the ruin of a skull
bleached white as salt, as brittle as ice.
He knew the curve of its eye socket and jaw,
like the signs on a shaman´s fetish.
Mike
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