In my mind, I walk on and on.
Morning sky beckons, gray and frozen.
An arrow of geese points toward where I know.
Already wind stirs in the bones of my chest.
Blood swirls up like crows startled in the corn.
Like flood water, I rise through grass
to the gravel road atop the levee,
course down tire tracks, then pour over the other side.
From the tangle of bramble and dead limbs I leave behind
all which will, if I fail to move, pin and prick me.
— Thomas Reynolds