Hike to the Beaver Dam

We hiked through cold that crept through our soles, schooling my feet
on the making of bricks. The trees seemed to crowd close around us,
not used to warm creatures, clothed in such colorful furs.
My mother said Shh! Let's listen for owls, and I answered:
Who!
Who!
Who!
In laughter I saw like a phantom that page, full of names,
titled solemnly "Deaths". Mostly olds, with names that ring
of eras passed and many nights well spent.
At the end of the list is a name I know well, under bolded title
'10-'11 like one of us needed to go. The fearsome thing,
was how the name nestled neatly, a perfect fit to the page,
like Death consulted all listings of deaths
before deciding who goes and who stays.

The cold makes beards of breath and fools of us,
in bag lady coats and scarves pulled tight 'round necks.
I'm learning to tell white from white
to follow paths of snow. I pass a pretty patch of pink
where rabbit feast was had, chunks of fur adorning ice,
At the bottom of the gully is a clearing and a beaver dam.
Between the walls of trees the sun is sinking lower, dragging
paint across the sky. I'm breathing flags of white which mark
my misbelonging, my hot breath and bricks for feet.
The ghosts come tugging from my mouth and soon I'll go,
back up the hill, away and far from here.
Here, where the rodents have changed how the forest looks,
felling trees with teeth and piling them, those linking logs,
to dam the little river, grow it wide and flood the earth.
My mother says Shh! and I listen, listen, listen.