Brennan Sprague

Woodsmoke

Hard snowfall blurs the passage
of this conifer field. Extinguished
woodsmoke lingers—its plumes
coil frostbitten juniper. You stoop
deep inside your collar, cottontail
held close to your chest. The squall
curls in dark cedars. Spirits are rising
from the ground. They whirl in muslin
dresses & tuxedos, foxtrot in constellated
ballrooms. They sob into handkerchiefs,
let their silk snag onto denuded branches,
denuded branches these spirits sift like wind.
The cottontail heeds their sad music.
You are far behind me now. Stars absorb
our injury and rupture. You instruct
that when I reach the end to turn around.

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